Visit to a Weird Island Revisited
by callensensei
Summary: What happened to Gilligan, the Professor and Mary Ann in Los Angeles? Can be read as a sequel to Visit to a Weird Island or as a stand-alone.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **The weird island and everybody on it are the creation of Sherwood Schwartz, may he live forever.

**Author's Ramblings: **You will notice that once again there are some characters here with unfamiliar last names. That is because _all _of the characters in this story are fictional. Yup. I made 'em up, right out of my weird imagination.

**More Ramblings**: Dedicated to Jean Lorrah and Ruth Berman, who started the whole "Weird Planet" sub-genre, and to everyone who asked for a sequel to Visit to a Weird Island. Hold onto your hats!

**Visit to a Weird Island Revisited**

The red-shirted figure broke the surface of the lagoon. "_Skippererer!_" he shouted, thrashing about, as thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. He began to plunge desperately towards shore.

"Gilligan! What's the matter?" shouted the Professor from where he stood on the shore with Mary Ann.

"Oh, no! D-do you think something's got him?" cried the petite farm girl, clutching his arm.

"I'll go find out. You stay here, Mary Ann!" The Professor dashed into the lagoon, but Gilligan came charging out so fast that by the time they met, the water was only thigh-deep. The Professor caught the panicking young sailor's flailing arms and tried to keep him still. "Gilligan, what's the matter? Are you hurt?"

"Professor, they're here! Run for your life!"

"Who's here?"

"The headhunters!" Gilligan fairly screamed. "Didn't you hear them?"

The Professor shook his head. "Gilligan, you're mistaken. Mary Ann and I haven't heard a thing! Have we, Mary Ann?"

"He's right, Gilligan!" she answered. "We haven't seen or heard anyone!"

Gilligan blinked, pulling up his goggles with trembling fingers. "Are you sure?"

"Of course we are, Gilligan." The Professor knew how high-strung the seemingly carefree first mate actually was; he kept his voice at its most soothing as he led Gilligan out of the water. "What made you think the headhunters were here? And how could you possibly hear them underwater?"

"I heard their drums! I would have stayed under but I had to come out and warn you!"

The Professor patted Gilligan on the back. "Well, that was very noble of you, but what you heard wasn't drums; it was thunder. One of those swift summer storms is passing the island. We probably won't even see it!"

"Oh." Gilligan gave a slight sigh of relief but still scanned the jungle with wide, nervous blue eyes. "But the Skipper told us that he found that campfire and that arrowhead. There _are_ headhunters on the island somewhere! Isn't that right, Skip--" He suddenly focused on the pair before him. "Hey! What happened to the Skipper? He was with you the last time I dove in!"

"He said he couldn't wait, Gilligan," Mary Ann explained. "He wanted to get back and start making weapons to defend the camp!"

"Huh? And who's gonna defend _us_? Professor, maybe we better go back too! If there are headhunters around, the Skipper _is_ the best defense!"

The Professor shook his head. "But we still haven't found the third amulet, Gilligan!"

Gilligan's shoulders slumped. "Professor, I've swum around that lagoon five times already! I'm telling you, it's not there!"

"But these two were!" The Professor reached into his shirt and pulled out the gleaming golden disk that hung from a gold chain 'round his neck. A similar pendant hung over Mary Ann's halter top. "And the ancient Mayan legend says that all three amulets must be together in order for their powers to be activated!"

Gilligan folded his arms. "I thought you didn't believe in that stuff, Professor. You're always telling the Skipper and me that it's just primitive superstition!"

"There was nothing primitive or superstitious about the Mayans, Gilligan. They were one of the most brilliant civilizations the world has ever known: scientific pioneers who may even have had contact with extra-terrestrials!"

The two younger castaways stared blankly. "With what, Professor?" asked Mary Ann.

"With beings from outer space."

"What?" Gilligan shot a terrified glance at the sky. "It was bad enough when we had headhunters! Now we're gonna be invaded by men from Mars!" The sudden flicker of far-off lightning and subsequent boom nearly made him jump out of his sneakers.

"No, no! That wasn't what I meant, Gilligan!" The Professor held up a calming hand, trying to explain. "I simply meant that the power of the Mayans had nothing to do with magic. It was science: a science far more sophisticated than our modern world has ever produced. And the Mayans claimed that these amulets gave them the power to travel great distances in the blink of an eye!"

"But—" Gilligan began.

"And if that recent earthquake pushed these two amulets out of the mud at the bottom of the lagoon, it stands to reason that the third one is down there as well. But if we don't find them now, this approaching storm may silt up the water of the lagoon so badly that we won't be able to try again for days!"

"Oh, Gilligan, please give it another try!" cried Mary Ann. "We could be all be off the island and safe from the headhunters once and for all!"

Gilligan gave a defeated sigh. "Well…if it can save us all, okay. You win. Once more." He turned and splashed back into the water as another roll of thunder reverberated through the heavy air.

As Gilligan vanished beneath the surface, the Professor shielded his eyes and looked up at the sky. Mary Ann followed his example. "I've seen far worse skies than that in Kansas, Professor. Still looks like the storm might pass over us."

"I hope so," murmured the Professor. "I don't know how long it'll take Gilligan to find that amulet, and I certainly don't want him under water if that lightning gets any closer."

Mary Ann's brown eyes flew wide with alarm. "But what if it does?"

The Professor looked out at the lagoon as the rising wind stirred the water in an ominous dance. "I'm going in to get him."

Deep in the mysterious, misty depths of the lagoon, Gilligan glided through ballets of brightly coloured fish and waving tresses of seaweed. Wary crabs scuttled across pockmarked mounds of coral, sending up trails of silt and bubbles. Gilligan looked up ahead, where the bed of the lagoon dropped off suddenly into a deep depression that hid the ruins of a sunken yacht. He paused, stirring the water gently with his hands and feet, not keen to go on and explore the area near that eerie, haunted hulk. He cast one last, desperate look at the lagoon bed beneath him, and blew a stream of surprised bubbles from his nose as he spotted the gleam of metal moving in the twilight.

One of the crabs had a golden chain tangled 'round its front claw. Gilligan reached down and gently lifted the chain free. The crustacean scurried away as Gilligan lifted the gleaming amulet, his eyes dancing in the half-light.

With an exultant kick he propelled himself to the surface and shot from the water, the amulet held high. "Professor! Is this it?"

"Gilligan!" He heard Mary Ann shout as he pulled the goggles up again and shook the water from his hair. "Thank God you're alive!"

"Gilligan, get out of that water _now_!" thundered the Professor. "That last bolt of lightning was huge! It could have cooked you!"

"What?"

"Oh, blast!" This from an unfamiliar British voice that sounded like it came from the shore. "Airplanes roaring overhead, the spot-light bursts like one of your fourth-of-July fireworks, and now the three of you decide to improvise your own script! We'll never shoot this scene at this rate!"

Gilligan blinked. He felt his feet suddenly hit bottom, a solid bottom, where before the water had been far over his head. The water and the air had turned quite chilly. But he hardly noticed either strange phenomenon as he stared at the scene before him.

The Professor and Mary Ann were still on the shore, clutching one another as if in fear. But they weren't looking at Gilligan. Instead, they were looking behind themselves at the source of the voice both they and Gilligan had heard. When Gilligan saw the speaker and his companions, he stared, wide-eyed. "Professor! If those are head-hunters, they're the best dressed ones I've ever seen!"

They were the palest as well. Their leader was a forty-ish looking blond man in jodhpurs, elegant shirt and beret, who stood impatiently tapping a riding crop against his high-booted leg. Behind him, fanned out along the edge of the jungle, was an impressive collection of cameras, boom mikes and tall spotlights, all trailing long, black, cords and all manned by a polo and jean clad crew. A man stood off to the side with a black slate clapboard, hastily rubbing out a number six.

"Wh-who are you?" the Professor finally managed to stammer.

But the man in jodhpurs wasn't listening; he was too busy giving orders. He looked at one of his men as he pointed to a tall spotlight fringed with jagged shards of glass. "See about replacing that light, Sam, and get all this sand swept away. Don't want our darlings cutting themselves, and when the Rams do their stint tomorrow morning they'll be in bare feet. Hop to it, men." He turned, suddenly realizing he'd been spoken to. "I'm so sorry. What did you say?"

"I said, 'Who are you?" said the Professor, staring in absolute astonishment.

"And who are they?" gasped Mary Ann, pointing a trembling finger at the crew.

"And what is all that?" called Gilligan.

"And where on earth did you come from?" finished the Professor.

The blond man looked annoyed. "From Surrey, dear boy, if you must know!" He shook his head and tisked. "I should think you lot could choose a better time to practice your improvisations. I don't know about the three of you, but we've got a television program to shoot." He strode over to where the man was writing on the clapboard. "Good Lord. Take 7? Is that what we're on? We've got to get this scene in the can by Friday!"

He looked out to where Gilligan was still shivering. "Well, you might as well come in, Bob old fellow. Your winters here in Los Angeles may not be as nippy as England, but if you stay out there any longer, you're bound to catch pneumonia."

"L-Los Angeles?" Mary Ann gasped. "D-did you say, Los Angeles?"

"Of course I did," replied the Britisher. "Ain't that how it's pronounced? Damn name's foreign anyhow."

The Professor looked as though the witch doctor had turned him back into a zombie. "Los Angeles, California?" he croaked. _"California?"_

The Englishman made a face. "Dash it all, Russell, I don't need a lesson in pronunciation."

Gilligan was standing stock still in the middle of the lagoon, hardly daring to believe his ears. "P-professor…did I hear what I think I heard? Did we--"

"Yes! The amulets worked! We're saved! _We're saved!_"

Gilligan remained still for about half a second. Then he exploded through the water with a wild shout of joy as Mary Ann and the Professor grabbed each other and swung round in a euphoric dance. "We're saved! We're saved! Hooray!"

The man called Sam looked at the Englishman. "This a wrap for the day, Mr. Godwins?"

"Absolutely," snorted Mr. Godwins. "Bally crackers, all of them!"

The whirling threesome were still shouting and singing when the Professor suddenly pulled them to a halt so fast that they nearly knocked into one another. "Wait a minute," he cried. "If this is Los Angeles, why are we still at the lagoon?"

Mary Ann stared at the familiar landscape. "You're right, Professor. It is our lagoon! There's the waterfall, and the big tree stump, and the trail that leads to our camp!"

"But there sure weren't any office buildings behind our lagoon the last time I looked," said Gilligan, peering at the horizon. "Look over there!"

The Professor shaded his eyes. "You're right, Gilligan. I can just make them out! And I can hear cars – surely there's a freeway back there!"

"Tough luck, Mr. Godwins," said the man called Sam. "We lost the take, but the rush hour traffic's started. We'd have lost the sound anyway."

"Oh, why on earth did I become a director?" moaned the Englishman. "Why didn't I read Law, like Pater wanted? Sometimes I think I'd prefer to film a television series about seven stranded castaways on a _real_ deserted island!"

The real castaways stared. At last they began taking in the cameras, lights and equipment. "Seven stranded castaways? Good heavens," gasped the Professor. "This is a film set! You're filming a tv program!"

The director rolled his eyes. "Very droll, Russell, I'm sure. What did you suppose _Gilligan's Island_ was? Grand opera?"

"Gilligan's Island?" echoed Mary Ann. "Do you mean it's a TV show – about _us?_"

"And it's named after _me?_" exclaimed Gilligan, absolutely delighted.

"Oh, give it a rest, do," sighed the director.

"And yet no one's come to rescue us?" The Professor was horrified. "Good Lord, man, is this some sort of joke? We've been stranded on that island for nearly three years!"

"And how'd you find out about us?" demanded Gilligan. "Nobody ever tells people where we are. Not Eva Grubb, not George Barkley, not Tongo—"

Godwins shook his head. "Look here, Bob, Dawn, Russell: I'll recommend you all for the Emmy Award for sheer overacting! Now do please stop all this nonsense and let us clear the set!" He strode off, swinging his crop. "Ruddy Americans!"

The Professor pulled his friends close in a football huddle. "Listen, you two: I'm beginning to realize why this poor man's so confused."

"_He's_ confused?" said Gilligan. "What's that make us?"

"Please, Gilligan, bear with me. I should have realized that this Mr. Godwins doesn't know about the amulets. He has no way of knowing we just materialized here from the island. He must think we're the actors in his tv series!"

"Is that why he keeps calling us by the wrong names?" said Mary Ann.

"I'm sure you're right. And since he can't tell us apart, it would appear that these actors are our doppelgangers!"

"You mean they're German?" said Gilligan.

"No, no, Gilligan. Doppelganger means double. It means they look exactly like us!"

"Oh. You mean just like this lagoon looks exactly like our lagoon!"

"Yes, Gilligan." The Professor looked around uneasily. "Eerily like our lagoon, in fact."

Gilligan was catching his uneasiness. "Then if we're here, where are the actors? Where'd they go?"

"There's only one place they could have gone, I suppose. Our island! The amulets somehow caused us to switch places!"

"Boy, are they in for a surprise," said Gilligan. "And so are the others!"

"Well, at least we're here and can tell the authorities about them now," said Mary Ann. "But I still don't understand it. These actors – they've been playing us? Someone's done a show about our being shipwrecked? But how? Why?"

The Professor chewed his lip in worry as he stared at the phantom lagoon. "I don't know, Mary Ann. But there are two things I want the pair of you to do for now."

"Sure, Professor," they chorused, anxious for direction.

"Don't tell anyone who you really are for the moment. Just play along with pretending to be actors for the time being, until I can figure out how to explain to these people about what's happened with the amulets."

"But we don't even know--" began Mary Ann.

"Speak as little as possible, for now. I'll take the lead. The second thing I want you to do will be even harder: don't call the authorities yet. And don't call your families."

"But _Professor!_"

"I know, I know. You're both understandably anxious to speak to everyone back home, but I still don't know exactly what's happened to us, and I want to try to understand it better before we reveal ourselves to anyone. Agreed?"

Mary Ann and Gilligan nodded with downcast faces. "Agreed."

Suddenly a booming voice greeted them. "Ha, ha ha! I hear you three are up to your old tricks! What are the three of you jokers doing?"

"Just remember," the Professor whispered desperately. "He's not the Skipper! No matter what he looks like or sounds like, he's not the Skipper!" But his warning could not stop all three of them from gasping when they turned and saw the man.

"Wow!" Gilligan whispered, and his shivering had nothing to do with the cold. "He's a doublebanger, all right!"

The big man could have been the Skipper's twin brother. He was even wearing the Skipper's blue polo shirt and captain's cap. There were the same twinkling blue eyes, the same broad smile. "Our unit finished early, folks. I was hoping I'd catch you still here - my car's in the shop and I'd like to hitch a ride to where Trinkett's going to pick me up in hers."

Bewildered, Mary Ann couldn't help herself. "Car? Trinkett?"

The man in the captain's hat turned his blue eyes to her. "Oh come on, Dawn. I mean, some men wouldn't trust their wife with a car, but I trust mine. Trinkett's a great little driver."

Just then the Englishman approached, draping a blanket around the shivering first mate's shoulders. "Alan, would you take poor Bob up to his dressing trailer and see that he gets a hot shower and some dry clothes, won't you? I'm afraid he'll catch his death."

"Huh?" Gilligan gasped.

Godwins sighed. "Just an English expression, dear boy. Means you'll catch cold."

"Oh."

The man the director had called Alan put his arm around Gilligan's skinny shoulders. "I think you're right, Leslie! Come on, Bob. You can't get sick. We can't very well do _Gilligan's Island_ without you!"

"Yeah, I…guess not!" Gilligan pulled the blanket closer around himself as the chill in the air finally seemed to register.

The Professor, seeing his friends' uneasiness, gently disengaged Gilligan from the actor's grip and passed him over to Mary Ann. At Alan's look of surprise the Professor explained, "Ah, I think Bob's all right to walk with Dawn now. I want to talk to you," and he tried to say the unfamiliar name casually, "Alan. Let's head for the trailers, shall we?"

Gilligan and Mary Ann looked at each other as they fell in behind. "What's the Professor doing?" whispered Mary Ann.

"I don't know," Gilligan whispered back. "Just play along!"

The foursome moved off down the trail out of what was all too obviously a fake jungle. Subtly the Professor held back so that Alan ended up leading the way. After a few minutes they emerged from the "jungle" into a miniature city of roadways and large, white buildings like airplane hangers. Mary Ann and Gilligan stared all about them in awe.

"That lagoon! It was ours, but it was a fake! No wonder it was so shallow!" whispered Gilligan.

"We really are in a studio!" whispered Mary Ann. "Like Ginger worked in. My gosh, we're in Hollywood!"

They had frozen in place, and the Professor gently waved them along as Alan stared back at them. Roy Hinkley marshaled his troubled thoughts. Plucking Alan by the sleeve, he asked quietly, "So…Alan. How is _Gilligan's Island_ doing?"

Alan chuckled. "Don't you read the trade papers, Russ? Same as ever. The critics hate us. 'Most inane nonsense ever seen on television.' And the public loves us. 'Funniest sitcom ever made.'"

"I see." He glanced behind himself, saw the nervous Mary Ann and Gilligan still staring around at their surroundings, and lowered his voice. "Quiet – I don't want to upset them."

Alan looked back again. "Oh, okay," he murmured. "They are acting a bit funny."

The Professor continued. "How are our…uh…costars taking the news of our critical reception?"

"Just the same. Natalie and Jim don't care. They're old pros. They know this business. Poor little Dawn back there was pretty upset for awhile, but after old Jim explained that it's the ratings that count, she was okay."

"Mmmm. And other than that?"

"Other than that?" Alan paused for a moment, as though he were about to make a confession. Then he straightened and quickly put on a happy face. "Oh, things are great! Just great. Sherwood even told me we've been picked up for a fourth season."

"Oh." Wondering who on earth Sherwood was, the Professor feigned a look of happy surprise. "Sherwood must be very pleased."

"Is he ever. I'll bet he's already got all next year's scripts outlined all ready." Alan pushed his captain's hat back with a sigh of wonder. "I'm telling you, that guy just never quits. I mean, he's in his late forties and creates a hit show, and a real original to boot. Everybody else is doing westerns and family comedies and he comes up with the idea of castaways on a deserted island!"

The Professor raised an eyebrow. "A somewhat unusual choice for a comedy, I'd agree. I mean, the original story had such a tragic ending, at least as far as all the world knew."

"It did?" Alan looked puzzled. "Sherwood told me he got the idea from Robinson Crusoe. Didn't he get rescued in the end? Him and Man Friday?"

"Oh, yes!" The Professor was really floundering now. "But as for the Minnow…"

"Heh, heh. You know, Russell, Sherwood told me the funniest story. He said there was this coastguard cutter, this real ship, and the officer on it got a telegram from somebody saying, "Why don't we save those poor people on that island!" And a junior officer came up and said, "Sir, it's a TV show! I mean, can you believe somebody actually thought the Minnow and the shipwreck and the castaways were real? Who did they think was filming them every week?"

"Extraordinary!" said the Professor, feigning a chuckle as his stomach felt momentarily queasy.

"And the more out in left field this show gets, I'm amazed anybody believes it! Look at this week's script! Mayan amulets and traveling through the space-time continuum and parallel dimensions! This is a sitcom?? Sometimes I think the writers are trying to turn us pure sci-fi. Next thing you know, the Professor'll build a rocketship out of bamboo and we'll end up shipwrecked on another planet or something!"

"Ha, ha." The Professor laughed a mirthless laugh. "Let's hope they don't try it, Alan!"

They had reached a line of long, metal trailers. "Well, here we are," said Alan. "Come on, Bobby. Out of those wet clothes." He reached out to twitch the blanket off, but Gilligan jerked out of reach.

"Nothing doing! Not in front of a lady!"

Alan rolled his eyes very much in the same way the Skipper would have. "In your trailer, knucklehead. Where your shower is! You always leave some extra clothes in there just in case they toss you in the lagoon, don't you?"

"S-sure," said Gilligan, his bright blue eyes still watching Alan with a troubled air. At last the first mate started hesitantly towards the trailer Alan was pointing at: the one with the name "Bob Colorado" on the nameplate. To the young sailor's surprise, the door was unlocked, and he pulled it open like an inexperienced burglar. With one last look of apprehension, he disappeared inside.

The Professor took Mary Ann's elbow and led her towards the trailer marked "Dawn Bells." "Why don't you get changed as well, dear? But be sure not to lose your necklace. It's awfully valuable, you know."

Mary Ann stared at him, but they had all learned to trust the Professor long before this. "All right. If you say so." She cautiously stepped inside, and they saw the light go on.

"They're too much, those two." Alan pulled a box of Belvederes from his pocket. "Trinkett doesn't like me to smoke in the car. Want one?"

"Mmmm?" The Professor blinked at the sight of the cigarettes. "Oh, no. No thank you." The mention of Alan's wife suddenly put the Professor on to a very uncomfortable possibility. "But…but I wonder if you'd do me a favour."

"Be glad to. And maybe you could give me a ride? I've always wanted a spin in that snazzy red convertible of yours."

"Oh! Certainly, certainly! Uh…whereabouts did you want to go?"

"There's a little gas station on Santa Monica Boulevard by the turnoff to San Diego Freeway. Trinkett's going to meet me there."

The Professor screwed up his eyes for a moment, trying to remember his Los Angeles geography from his days at UCLA. "Is there a landmark nearby?"

"Sure. It's right beside the main branch of the Los Angeles Public Library."

"Eureka!" the Professor exploded like Sam's spotlight. "That's the very place – uh, the place where I'm heading. I can certainly drop you off there."

"Great!"

The sound of a shower hissing from one of the trailers reminded the scholar of his uncomfortable suspicion. "But about that favour: it's about Bob and Dawn."

Alan looked at the trailers and shook his head. "They sure are acting strange. What's the matter with them, anyway?"

"I'm not sure, but I would like to keep an eye on them overnight. I'll get us a hotel."

"Really?" The big man glanced worriedly at the trailers. "They in some kind of trouble or something?"

"No, no, not at all."

"But…what'll Bob's wife and Dawn's husband say when they don't come home tonight?"

So the uncomfortable possibility was a reality. The Professor tried to sound much more nonchalant than he felt. "Ah, could you phone their families, Alan? Just so they won't worry?"

"Well, if you say so. But what'll I say?" Alan scratched his blond head for a moment. "Hey, wait a minute. I've got it: early shoot tomorrow, might as well stay at a hotel nearby?"

"Excellent idea."

"What about your wife? You going to phone her?"

"Uh…" The Professor decided not to take the chance. "Could you, please? I'm afraid to let those two out of my sight that long."

Alan looked alarmed. "Wow. That's really out of this world! But I'll sure do it if you say so – as a matter of fact, why don't I do it now while I run and get my things? Then I'll meet you back here."

"That sounds fine. I think I'll take the opportunity to change as well."

"All right. See you soon."

"See you, Alan." As the big man turned and glided off, the Professor looked around, shading his eyes at the smoggy grey sky. "Out of this world indeed," he murmured, as he stepped into the trailer marked "Russell Tomson."

About ten minutes later, the Professor emerged from the now empty trailer of Dawn Bells with a large canvas bag. He looked up to see Gilligan and Mary Ann turning from where they had been studying a huge map of the studio mounted on a large sign. The first mate was now dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans, while Mary Ann was quite mod in a blue and white polka dot mini skirt, sweater set and jaunty cap. "Well, Professor? How do we look?" said Mary Ann as they approached.

"Fashion plates, the two of you. Very smart."

"Now can you please tell us what's going on?" asked Gilligan. "That guy looked so much like the Skipper even the Skipper couldn't tell them apart! And he didn't blink twice at us! I never did like lookalikes, Professor. There's something really weird about all this!"

The Professor held up a calming hand. "I promise, I'll explain everything in due time. Now, in a few minutes that man who looks like the Skipper is going to meet us here, and I want you to call him Alan, and answer when he calls you Dawn and Bob. All right?"

"All right, Professor."

"When Alan gets here, we're going to go with him to the parking lot and look for my car. It's a red convertible."

Gilligan was impressed. "You've got a _car_? How'd you get a car here, Professor?" He looked at Mary Ann. "Wow! He can do anything!"

"It's my actor's car, not mine. Just promise to let me do the talking. Is that understood?"

Gilligan stood to attention. "Whatever you say, Professor! You can count on us!"

"So, where are we going?" asked Mary Ann.

"Downtown Los Angeles."

"_Downtown Los Angeles?_" they chorused, breathless. It was as though, for both of them, the dream had suddenly turned real.

"Wow!" whispered Gilligan. "This is it. We're finally home!"


	2. Chapter 2

A short time later, in the dusk of the orange sunset, Alan, the Professor, Gilligan and Mary Ann were flying down Santa Monica Boulevard with the convertible's top down and the radio blaring the sugary harmony of the Beach Boys. Around them glowed the lights of a river of cars and the myriad windows of the shopfronts. Alan rode shotgun as navigator while the Professor drove, amazed and relieved at how easily both driving and the layout of Los Angeles came back to him. This was fortunate, as their quiet conversation was no match for the pop group, or the pair in the back seat.

"Golly, I've never ridden in a convertible before! It's so much fun! You can see everything!"

"Sure goes faster than that bamboo car I used to drive!"

"Look at all those buildings! Look at all the cars! Look at all the people!"

"And she'll have fun-fun-fun 'til her Daddy takes her T-bird away-ay-ay!"

"What in the world has got into those two?" Alan murmured to the Professor. "They sure aren't themselves tonight!"

"You're telling me," the Professor muttered. Against his better judgement, he glanced at the scene in the rear-view mirror again and wished he hadn't. Gilligan and Mary Ann were not exactly following his instructions. In fact, they were acting as though they'd downed several pots of fermented-berry tea. The teeming, gleaming, razzle-dazzle streets of L.A. were a mind-blowing brew after almost three years of the quiet isolation of the island. Any fear the pair had felt at the strange circumstances of their homecoming was long gone.

"Look at how long this road is! It's as long as my father's back-forty!"

"Look at that motorcycle! I'll bet it goes a hundred miles an hour!"

"Look at the dresses!"

"Look at the surf boards!"

Alan glanced behind himself briefly, broad brow creasing in a frown. "Sorry, Russell. I couldn't quite catch that."

The Professor gave a sharp sigh of frustration and turned the radio down. Immediately there came a whoop from the back seat.

"Hey! Professor! We can't hear the music!"

"I think the two of you can hear it just fine. I can't hear what Alan's saying, and he can't hear me!"

"Now that Daddy took her T-Bird away! Wooooo!"

Alan looked at his companion. "Don't you get tired of them calling you 'Professor' all the time?"

"_Very_." The Professor gave another very sharp sigh. "Forgive me, Alan. I was asking how close we are to the turn off."

"Oh, I can't get over those fashions! Aren't they the end?"

"They're the end, all right! Boy! Look at the skirts on those girls! I've seen bigger postage stamps!"

Alan glanced back again. "How long do the two of you intend to keep this up, anyway?"

"Just try to ignore them, Alan. I think we're nearly there, aren't we?"

"Yeah, Russell, that's right. The Los Angeles Public Library's so huge, there's no way we can miss it."

"The _library?_" Gilligan's hoot hit High C. "Professor, are you kidding us?"

"Oh, Professor, come on!" This time it was Mary Ann. "On our first night back?"

"Come on, Professor," Gilligan pleaded. "Did you see how many diners and drive-in restaurants and malt shops we passed?" He leaned back against the seat cushions and sighed in an ecstasy of anticipation. "I'm gonna have a strawberry malted with ten scoops of ice cream – all different flavours!"

"Oh!" cried Mary Ann. "Make mine a double-thick chocolate!"

"With whipped cream, Mary Ann?"

"With whipped cream! Oh, Gilligan!" Mary Ann's voice had risen to a near-hysterical pitch. "We're saved! Everybody's saved! I can hardly wait 'til we can call our families and finally tell them we're all right! We're finally rescued!"

"Yeah!!!"

They began bopping and singing to the new song on the radio.

"She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah! She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah!"

Neither one could carry the tune, and neither one cared. Alan put his big hand on the Professor's shoulder. "My God, Russell, no wonder you didn't want them to go home to their families – or even talk on the phone! Now they're even calling each other by their show names! They've gone bonkers! What are they, drunk, or something? We've got a shoot tomorrow!"

The Professor took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Don't worry. I've got something in mind that ought to sober them up pretty quickly. They'll be back to their normal selves by tomorrow."

"I sure hope so. Bob and Dawn are real pros – I can't believe they're acting like this!" Alan lowered his tone again. "You sure you can handle them on your own? You need some help? I could talk to Trinket and -"

"No, no, they'll be quite all right with me, I assure you. I'm certain it's just a temporary aberration. And we don't want any kind of negative publicity to hurt the show."

Alan raised his eyebrows and nodded warily. "You're right. The tabloids would eat this up, and a big part of our audience is kids."

At last the Professor saw the imposing sandstone structure ahead and breathed a sigh of relief. He slowed down and headed for the entranceway. They eased into the palmetto-lined parking lot and cruised about, looking for an empty space. Alan shook his head again, staring at his ersatz costars with pity and fear. "Keep them on a tight leash until they're back to normal, Russ."

The Professor parked the car and snapped off the radio. The pair in the back kept on singing. "Don't worry. I intend to."


	3. Chapter 3

"Wow! Look at all these great dinosaurs!"

The Professor looked up from the microfiche reader with a feeling of great sympathy for the Skipper. "Gilligan?"

"The teeth on this one are huge! And look at the horns on that one!"

"Gilligan!"

"Yeah, Professor?"

It was just a little sigh. "Was that what I asked you to look for?"

"Huh? Oh." The first mate, seated nearby at a long table under the neon lights of the huge first floor of the Los Angeles Public Library, ducked his head sheepishly and clapped his book shut. A garish Tyrannosaurus Rex tussled with an equally fierce Triceratops on the front cover. "Sorry, Professor. I got kinda distracted. I haven't been to a library in so long!"

The Professor raised an eyebrow, smiling. "So you're not too bored on your first night back, then?"

Gilligan had the good grace to blush. "I'm sorry, Professor. I guess Mary Ann and I went a little crazy back there in the car. But we were just so excited to finally be back home! I mean, almost home." He sighed and looked fondly at his book. "And this _really _feels like home. I used to go to the library all the time."

"You did?" The Professor's eyes suddenly lit with recognition. "Wait a minute, that's right: we found your Honolulu library card on the island when you lost it!"

"I was always losing it. But I loved going to the library, ever since my mother first started taking me. She used to find me books with dinosaurs, dragons, pirates, cowboys…" A smile lit Gilligan's whole face. "Boy, I can't wait to call her. Are we nearly finished here, Professor?"

"We will be, as soon as you find that information I asked you for."

"What was it that you--oh yeah! The Naval Register! I'm supposed to look up the Skipper!"

"That's right. You can ask that librarian over there for help with your research."

"Aye aye, Professor!" Gilligan took off with such speed that he tripped over the Professor's canvas bag on the floor and knocked over the big globe that sat on the reference counter. He lunged for it but missed, and it bounced merrily off between the stacks as the librarian scowled in disapproval. With a grimace and a lift of his hat in apology, the first mate pushed himself off of the counter and raced after the rolling sphere. After a brief chase (during which the Professor hid his eyes with his hand and shook his head) he caught up with it and set it back on its stand.

Suddenly they both heard a peal of delighted laughter. Both men looked up to see a long-haired young woman in a flowery shirt and patchy bell-bottomed jeans standing nearby, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "Oh my gosh," she gasped. "You are so brilliant! You make it look so natural!" At last she caught her breath and smiled. "It _is_ you, isn't it? You're Gilligan!"

Gilligan smiled nervously at her, sneaking a quick baffled glance at the Professor, who nodded. "Y-yeah, it's me all right."

The girl's starry eyes swung to the Professor. "Wow! And the Professor too!"

"Him too," said Gilligan, still eyeing the girl as though he'd forgotten her name and was desperately hoping she wouldn't ask him for it.

"Oh, this is too much!" the girl gasped. "I wish the girls from my dorm were here! They'll be so jealous!"

"They_ will_?" Gilligan's dark eyebrows took a flying leap as the girl gazed at the two men in adoration.

The Professor smiled kindly. "I take it you're a fan of our show, Miss?"

"Am I? I've been a fan ever since you guys were first on the air! The girls and I watch you every week! You're absolutely the best!"

"Oh!" said Gilligan. "Now I get it. But we just look like them, lady. You see, we're not—"

The Professor flashed him a warning look and cut in quickly. "I'm afraid we're rather busy, Miss. Was there something we could help you with?"

"Uh, well – do you think I could have your autograph?"

The Professor didn't want to alienate anyone's fans. "Why, certainly. It's our pleasure." The Professor took her proffered notebook and scribbled hastily. "There you are."

"Thanks!" She thrust her book and pen at Gilligan, who took them both hesitantly.

"Uh – sure. What do you want me to write?"

"Oh, gee, anything. To my very best friend, Patti. How about that?"

"Okay."

When the girl took the book back and saw what he'd written, she giggled. "Oh, I love it! You've signed it with your character's name!"

The Professor decided it was time she was off. "Uh, Dawn's over there in the stacks, if you want to find her." He hoped Mary Ann wouldn't mind.

The girl's face lit. "She is? Wow! That's great! Thanks! Thanks, guys!" she turned and hurried off towards the aisles of books.

Gilligan watched her go. "Gee – that's the first time anybody's ever asked for my autograph, even though I guess she really didn't want mine. I can't get over how much those guys who play us must look like us. It's almost spooky."

"Spookier than you think, Gilligan. In any case, before any other fans approach us, are you ready to look up the Skipper?

"Oh! Sure, Professor." For a moment the young sailor stood looking at the Pacific on the globe, frowning. "No wonder they couldn't find us in all that ocean, Professor. Too bad we're not even on the map!" He turned and hurried off towards the scowling librarian.

"We're not on the map, all right. In more ways than one," the Professor murmured as he turned back to the microfiche reader. He replaced the slide under the microscope and looked into the viewer again, scanning the slide from top to bottom.

After awhile, he saw what he feared.

There was a soft thump on the table behind him. The Professor scowled, still looking into the viewer. "Gilligan, you can't already have–"

"It's not Gilligan, Professor."

"Oh." The Professor looked up and smiled in surprise. "I'm sorry, Mary Ann. How did you make out?"

"Some young woman just asked me for my autograph, and before that a big tall fellow said, 'Let me help you with that, Mary Ann!' and got a book off the highest shelf for me. This show they're playing us in must be awfully popular." She frowned. "I just don't understand it. Why a comedy? As far as the world knows, we're a tragedy!"

"Or a mystery, at least. Were you able to find the books I asked for?"

The brunette patted the stack of books in front of her. "Got them all here, Professor. The Social Register, Blue Book, Membership of the Harvard Club. Golly." She looked around her at the seeming miles of stacks and tables and study carols. "This place is amazing, Professor! Our local library was one room. You could put all of Horners Korners in this building, just on this floor, and still have plenty of room to spare. It's enormous!" She looked back at the Professor and blushed in embarrassment. "And I'm sorry about the silliness in the car, Professor. You must have felt like a parent with a couple of unruly kids!"

He arched a sardonic eyebrow. "The analogy did cross my mind."

"Well, you had the patience of Job. But it's just so exciting, Professor, being back and all!" Her big brown eyes were shining. "And being here, in Los Angeles! I've never seen any place like this. I was only in the airport here before; Honolulu's the only other big city I've ever been in, and that was only for a few days."

The Professor smiled. "Well, I have to admit it: compared to this city, Cleveland, Ohio doesn't look very exciting either. I'd forgotten how much I missed this place. Your excitement is perfectly understandable, Mary Ann. You and Gilligan have nothing to be embarrassed about."

"Thanks." She looked around. "Say, where is Gilligan?"

"Off to get the Navy lists. I want him to look up the Skipper."

"Oh – and I'm supposed to be looking up the Howells!" She settled herself down and began flipping through the pages of one of the large volumes while the Professor turned back to the microfiche reader.

After a few minutes Mary Ann spoke. "Professor?" Her tone was puzzled.

"Mmm?"

"These names are all listed in alphabetical order, aren't they?"

"Yes, they should be."

She paused and looked at the spine of the book, frowning. "That's funny. Maybe they'll be in this other one."

They read in silence for a few minutes longer until Gilligan arrived with several books under his arm. "Say, Professor, there's something wrong with these books. The Skipper isn't listed in them anywhere!"

The Professor looked up and nodded solemnly. "Did you look under active duty as well as retired?"

"Sure I did. The librarian helped me."

"You're sure you didn't miss anything?"

"I don't think I could've, Professor. My big buddy told me everything about his hitch in the Navy: when he first enlisted, when he was promoted, the names of all the ships he served on. We couldn't find him anywhere!"

Mary Ann looked as confused as Gilligan. "That's funny. I can't find the Howells either! Not in any of these books on high society or the stock market! It's as if they don't exist!"

"I was afraid of that," said the Professor. "Come over here, you two. I need to show you something." Turning to the microfiche reader next to him, he switched it on and placed a slide over the reading lamp. "Here, look at this."

"What was that little sheet you were holding, Professor?" Gilligan set his books down on the table as he and Mary Ann approached the readers. "Looked like film."

"It is. It's microfilm, or microfiche, as they call it in archival terminology."

"In what?" Gilligan asked, raising his eyebrows.

"In librarian's talk. It's a way of reducing a document in size so that you can store more information in a smaller space." The Professor held up a transparent blue rectangle about the height and length of a paperback novel. "This slide, for example, holds an entire newspaper."

"No fooling!"

"No fooling. And using this reader, you can see the contents magnified. Here." He got up and waved Gilligan over to the reader he had been looking at, then adjusted the one next to him. "Here, Mary Ann. You look at this one. Use this toggle here to move the slide around so that you can see all the pages."

His students were amazed. "Wow, Professor! You're right!" Gilligan exclaimed, peering eagerly into the viewer. "It is a whole newspaper. Hey – it's _our_ old newspaper! _The Honolulu Advertiser_!"

"And this one is the _Honolulu Star Bulletin_!" exclaimed Mary Ann.

"Precisely. Hawaii's two most prominent newspapers. And look at the date on the top."

The pair fiddled with the toggles; Mary Ann found it first. "Wednesday, September 10, 1964." She gasped. "That's the day after we sailed! The day after the storm!"

It took Gilligan just a few moments longer. "Yeah! It's the same date on this one!" He glanced up. "What do you want to look at these for, Professor? The Minnow's kind of old news by now, isn't it?"

The Professor sighed, his brows lowering. "I'm concerned by the strange nature of the articles about our disappearance."

"Really?" Gilligan turned back to his viewer, and he and Mary Ann scanned the slides more carefully this time. The Professor waited for the inevitable.

"Professor?" said Mary Ann. "I don't see any article here about us."

"Neither do I," said Gilligan.

"That was the strange nature," replied the Professor. When his two friends looked up in confusion, he explained, "I've just searched through two weeks worth of issues after we sailed. There isn't a single mention of the loss of the Minnow."

Mary Ann and Gilligan stared at one another, then back at the Professor. "But it was all over the radio!" cried Mary Ann. "That's all we heard for days!"

"They had the coast guard out and everything!" added Gilligan. "They searched for at least a week. How could it not be in the newspaper? That's impossible!"

"It _is_ impossible. Jonas Grumby was a veteran of the war in the Pacific. Any Hawaiian newspaper would have been certain to mention him. And the sinking of the Minnow made international news due to the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Thurston Howell the Third were aboard. But as you observed in the Social Register, Mary Ann, there is no Mr. and Mrs. Howell. And as you saw in the Naval Register, Gilligan, there is no Jonas Grumby."

Mary Ann was looking as worried as Gilligan. "Professor, you're frightening me. This doesn't make any sense. What in the world's going on?"

The Professor motioned them to the table. "Look, you two, you'd better sit down. There's something I've got to tell you."

They obeyed out of habit, but looked very nervous. The Professor stood over them, keeping his voice low. "The loss of the Minnow wasn't reported because it never happened. Our friends aren't mentioned in these documents because they never existed. Not here. Not in this world."

"This _what?_"

"Those Mayan amulets took us on an even stranger journey than we could have imagined. They've moved us into a parallel dimension: a world in which we exist only as characters in a television series, not as real people. A world in which we were never born, and neither were our friends."

Gilligan's dark brows lowered over eyes hollowed with fear. "Our friends on the island don't _exist?_"

"And what about our families?" whispered Mary Ann, instinctively clutching Gilligan's hand.

The Professor shook his head solemnly. "I'm afraid you won't be calling them. In this world, they don't exist either. We have no one here. We're all alone."

For a moment Gilligan turned so pale that he looked about to faint. "No!" he gasped. Patrons glanced around in surprise and the librarian looked over in disapproval again. "I don't believe it!"

"Professor, it can't be!" Mary Ann cried. "We've been waiting years for this!"

The Professor lifted his hands helplessly. "I'm sorry, both of you. I truly am. But there's no other explanation!"

Gilligan stood up, shoving his chair away so violently that it toppled over with a crash. "Come on, Mary Ann. We passed some payphones in the front lobby. I want to know for myself!" He turned and dashed for the doors, with Mary Ann close on his heels.

The Professor snatched up his canvas bag and raced after them as all heads on the neon-lit floor now turned to watch. He heard Mary Ann call out to Gilligan, "Don't worry about having change. Just reverse the charges!"

"Excuse me, Mr. Tomson!" The head librarian, a tall, gaunt man with silvering hair, stood in the Professor's way. "Could you please speak to your castmates?"

"That's what I'm endeavouring to do," said the Professor, trying to catch sight of them as they disappeared through the far doors to the lobby.

"Then kindly remind them that even though they all television stars, this is a place of study, not a roller-skating rink!"

The Professor nodded curtly and slipped 'round him, hurrying for the lobby doors. When he reached them he paused for a moment, his hand on the polished wood. Perhaps this was for the best, after all. Perhaps it was the only thing that would convince them. He pushed the door open slowly, and above the street noises he could hear the stricken voices of his friends.

"There isn't? Well…well, who is at that number, then?"

"What do you mean, there's no switchboard operator named Jessie? She's been the town's operator for years! She knows me! It's Mary Ann!"

"I don't get it! They must have moved! Well, what about the Mulligans? They live right next door! I know their number…"

"Mary Ann Summers! From the Summers Farm on Concession 8, Sideroad 19!"

"Well, what about the Flannigans, then? Or the McGuires?"

"That farm's been in our family for over a hundred years! What do you mean you've never heard of it?"

"Come on! The whole neighbourhood can't have disappeared!"

Roy Hinkley came up quietly behind them and laid a hand on both of their shoulders. Both his friends silently hung up their receivers, and when they turned around the grief in their faces wrung his heart. He reached out and took them both by the hand. "I'm so sorry. I know how much you both wanted to speak to your families."

"Professor, they're gone!" Mary Ann whispered, choking. "Everyone we knew…"

"Everyone!" Gilligan's Adam's apple was bobbing in distress. "And you said the island's gone too? With our friends? With the Skipper? Professor, what is this? Some kind of nightmare?"

"Now take it easy!" The Professor gripped their hands gently. "Your families are absolutely fine, I assure you, and so are our friends back on the island. We're the ones who have the problem." He smiled, releasing them. "Why don't we go somewhere where we can sit down and I can help you understand? I believe I heard someone mention a diner? And a strawberry malted with ten scoops of ice cream?"

Mary Ann gave a brave sniff. "And a double thick chocolate with whipped cream."

"You shall have it. Come on." The Professor clapped them both on the shoulder with a reassuring smile. "Let's go."


	4. Chapter 4

The blond waitress cast a dubious eye at her unhappy customers as she nibbled on the end of her pencil. "You did say you wanted a chocolate-covered hamburger, didn't you?" she asked hesitantly.

"He's fine, Miss. They're both fine. May I have some more coffee, please?"

It was a very fifties-style diner, with a black-and-white diamond tiled floor, bright red vinyl booths and chrome-edged tables. Everywhere people sat eating, talking, laughing, and popping coins into the miniature juke boxes at each table. Everywhere but at one corner booth where two castaways sat slumped like mourners while the third sipped calmly at his fresh coffee.

As the waitress walked away the Professor flipped the music tab on their juke box idly, looking at the titles. _Hmmm. No Mosquitoes either_, he noted, unable to hide his grin. Then turning to his companions, he put down his coffee cup with an impatient clink. "This is simply unbelievable. The first non-tropical food we've enjoyed in three years and all the two of you can do is poke at it. Now listen to me, both of you. The situation is not as hopeless as you imagine."

Mary Ann stared at her untouched steaming buttery mashed potatoes. "No? The farm's gone, my family's gone and our friends are gone!"

"They're not gone, Mary Ann. They're just not here."

"Then they might as well be gone," muttered the gloomy first mate, who had twisted his paper napkin into a curly-cue and begun to shred the ends. "'Cause we're not there."

The Professor ignored this bit of zen wisdom. "Is that what you thought when we were shipwrecked? Let's simply give up? Let's just sit here and feel sorry for ourselves, instead of doing whatever we can to ensure our rescue? That's not the brave sailor and the spirited young woman that I've come to know."

When both Gilligan and Mary Ann looked up sheepishly, the Professor gestured around at the restaurant and the bustling night-time world beyond the windows. "Look around you. Look where we are, for heaven's sake! We _have_ rescued ourselves, and we had neither a boat nor a transmitter! We can accomplish anything we set our minds to, but only if we coordinate our efforts and maintain our morale, just as we've always done."

Gazing around at their shiny, manufactured, civilized surroundings, Gilligan seemed to awaken from a trance. He took a deep breath and fired his wadded-up napkin into the waste bin across the aisle. "You're right, Professor. What's the matter with us, Mary Ann? This _is_ a miracle! If we can get ourselves here, we can do anything!"

"But what _do _we do?" asked Mary Ann, still not convinced.

The Professor shrugged. "For the moment, simply try to fit in. We'll return to the studio tomorrow and pretend we are the actors in this television series until I figure out how to resolve our dilemma."

Gilligan and Mary Ann threw one another disbelieving looks. "You mean you were serious about our pretending to be these tv stars? But how can we? We're not actors!" cried Mary Ann.

"We'll simply be playing ourselves on camera. How difficult could that be?"

"But what about when we're not on camera, Professor?" said Gilligan. "What about all those other people at that studio, like that guy that looked like the Skipper? I'll bet they know this Bob and Dawn and Russell pretty well. What about when they start asking questions?"

"An excellent point, Gilligan. That's where these come in." The Professor reached down and lifted the canvas bag he had been carrying all evening. "Prepare to learn your roles."

Gilligan raised his eyebrows. "Where'd you get that, Professor? You didn't have it when we left the island."

"It was in my dressing trailer – ah, that is, Mr. Tomson's dressing trailer. I visited the dressing rooms of your counterparts while you were looking at the map and took the liberty of borrowing a few items." Casually he pulled out a brown calfskin wallet and handed it to the astonished first mate. "These will be our new identities, for the time being."

The wallet might have been a poisonous spider for all Gilligan's look of horror. "Professor! You can't just take another guy's wallet like that! That's stealing!"

"You've taken his clothes."

Gilligan glanced down at his black t-shirt and jeans, wincing. "Yeah, but…but…mine were wet!"

"Ah, you see? Exitus acta probat."

"Huh? What does that mean in English?"

"Finders Keepers." Without missing a beat the Professor pulled a pink vinyl purse from his bag and handed it to Mary Ann.

"B-b-but I can't!" she cried, holding the offending item with the tips of her fingers. "I think I'd die if another woman went through my purse!"

"Then how do you intend to pay for this meal? Did you bring any money?"

Gilligan and Mary Ann looked at one another in dismay. "Oh, my gosh!" said Gilligan. "I never even thought about money! We haven't had to spend any for so long! But we can't just steal it, Professor!"

"In any other circumstance I'd concur, Gilligan. But what choice do we have? We've no money and no one to borrow it from. We'll need to pay for food and lodging, and maybe even purchase a few clothes and other supplies. Now look," he added, as he saw his friends' jaws dropping and eyes widening, "I don't mean that we should take their credit cards and go wild in the department store. We'll be very thrifty. But after all, if we're here, our counterparts must be on the island. They're enjoying the hospitality of our friends. Isn't this a fair exchange?"

Mary Ann raised her eyebrows. "Fair? They're in bamboo huts eating turtle eggs and coconuts!" She savoured a mouthful of her mashed potatoes and smiled. "Mmm. Not too fair, I'd say."

"Want me to warm those up for you? I think you let them get cold."

The threesome looked up to see that the blond waitress had appeared as if by magic, holding a pot of coffee.

"Oh, no thanks. They're delicious!" said Mary Ann.

"Glad to hear it," smiled the waitress. "Like some more coffee, Professor?"

"Yes, please." Roy Hinkley pushed his cup forward, then blinked. "Oh – you recognized us, Miss?"

The young woman's very pink lips widened in a grin. "Sure I did!" She turned to Gilligan. "_You_ are a genius."

Gilligan couldn't have been more stunned if she'd slapped him. He pointed at the Professor. "Uh…are you sure you don't mean him?"

She shook her head, smiling. "I mean _you_. You must be one of the funniest guys on the planet. When I watch you and the Skipper going at it, it just kills me!"

"Oh." Gilligan smiled in return. "Gee, thanks!"

Now the waitress turned to Mary Ann. "And all the guys say you're just as pretty as Ginger, if not more so!"

Mary Ann laughed in embarrassment. "Oh! Well…that's very sweet of them!"

"And as for you, _Professor_," said the waitress coyly, "well, if I were shipwrecked on an island with you, I wouldn't be building any boat, that's for sure!"

The younger castaways chuckled as the Professor blushed and harrumphed into his napkin.

The waitress beamed at them all. "I've watched you guys every week for three years. You're like an escape from all this craziness." She looked around and sighed. "God knows we all need it every so often. Well, give me a shout when you want dessert!"

When she had gone, Gilligan turned to the Professor with a sly grin. "Gee, Professor. And you didn't even try your Cary Grant impression on her!"

"Maybe it's a good thing," giggled Mary Ann.

The Professor rolled his eyes. "All right, all right. Very funny!" He wiped his lips with his napkin and took on a supercilious expression. "Dear, dear, dear! Can a man help it if he's handsome as well as brilliant?"

The first mate burst out laughing. "There you are! Hi, Cary! Too bad you're not the guy the Professor's supposed to be playing!"

The Professor pointed. "Speaking of who we're supposed to be, start looking through those wallets! Those are our characters, for as long as we're here!"

This sobered the giggling pair down a bit. "But can't we just tell everybody who we really are?" Mary Ann asked. "Why the masquerade?"

"Who would believe us? Would you believe it? I was talking with Alan during that stroll to our trailers. He said that anyone who thought the island was real must be mad. After your little performance in the car tonight, he's already afraid the two of you might have a touch of the sun. What would people think if we tried to convince everyone we were fictional characters?"

"I got answer," Gilligan said glumly. "How cold is Siberia?"

"I-I guess you're right." Mary Ann opened the purse gingerly. "Well, here goes."

"Yeah. Who knows? It might even be fun." Gilligan took a big bite of his hamburger, flipped the wallet open, and a plastic folder of photographs snaked down in front of him. His eyes went huge.

"Gilligan?" The Professor was alarmed. "Chew! Do you hear me? Don't swallow yet!"

Somehow, Gilligan obeyed without choking himself. When his mouth was clear he turned the wallet to face them. "I've got kids!" he squeaked. "I'm married!"

"Aww, they're cute, Gilligan! They even look like you!" said Mary Ann.

Gilligan turned the pictures around again. "Yeah, they are kinda cute," he murmured, looking at the dark-haired little boy and baby girl. But he spun the wallet 'round again to face the Professor. "But what about this lady? She's my wife? I've gotta go home and pretend I'm married to her?"

"No, no, of course not," the Professor soothed. "We don't want to push this impersonation too far!"

"Whew!" Gilligan wiped his brow and breathed more slowly. "Thank goodness. Who knows? Maybe I've got moles where this guy Bob doesn't!"

Mary Ann raised an amused eyebrow while the Professor strove to reassure them both. "None of us are going to our "homes" tonight. I had Alan take care of that. We're going to a hotel, together, where we can work on learning our lines." He patted his canvas bag. "I have our scripts here."

"Scripts? We're going to have to memorize lines? Oh, golly." Mary Ann looked in "her" wallet. "Say, I'm married too! And I was born in—" she pried a plastic card out of its holder. "Reno, Nevada!"

The Professor fished a card out of Russell's wallet. "I was in the military! Well, what do you know about that?"

"I'm thirty-one!" Gilligan was staring in disbelief at the driver's licence in his hand.

Mary Ann flashed her big brown eyes at him. "You don't look it," she laughed. "You're going to give the make-up crew a bit of a surprise!"

The Professor looked over to where their waitress was approaching with a stack of paper napkins. "And one more thing: unless we're alone, remember: our names are Bob, Dawn and Russell, all right? No more Professor, Gilligan and Mary Ann."

"Okay, Profess—I mean, okay, Russell," Gilligan replied as the waitress came up.

"Some people here asked if they could have your autographs," she said, putting the napkins on the table. "They didn't have any paper, so I thought you could use these." When she noticed the half-eaten hamburger, she smiled. "Got your appetite back, have you, Gilligan?"

"Uh –" Gilligan looked up at her. "Call me Bob."

She laughed. "Any time!"


	5. Chapter 5

Though it was a modest hotel, it certainly boasted more amenities than their bamboo huts ever could. The sight of the vending machines quickly cured Gilligan of his reluctance to spend his counterpart's money, and he hit them like a veteran Las Vegas gambler at the slots. Mary Ann, meanwhile, had filled two buckets and four water tumblers with the long forgotten luxury of ice. She sat nursing a chilled Dr. Pepper in the Professor and Gilligan's room, next to a table stacked with a jackpot of potato chips, cheezies, chocolate bars and soda pop. Behind her a pair of long gauze curtains wafted in the faint breeze from the balcony, and traffic rumbled from the neon-studded darkness beyond. Balancing an open script on her knee, Mary Ann called eagerly to the bathroom. "Okay, fellows! Whenever you're ready!"

Gilligan and the Professor strolled out; or more precisely, Gilligan strolled while the Professor marched stiffly. Sipping elegantly from his glass of coke, the first mate adopted a haughty expression and drawled in tones that came right from the halls of dear old Harvard. "Now what's this all about, Professor, old man?"

The Professor took one look at Gilligan and burst into laughter.

"What's the matter, Professor?"

The Professor rolled his eyes, still chucking. "Gilligan, you have got to stop impersonating Mr. Howell!"

"But right now I'm supposed to be Mr. Howell!"

"But you're not supposed to make the Professor laugh, Gilligan," said Mary Ann, who was laughing too.

"Exactly," said the Professor.

Gilligan grinned wickedly. "You thought that was funny? How about this?" He fished a quarter out of his pocket and popped it into his eye orbit like a monocle. "I say, Professor, old bean. This acting thingy's not my line of work, you know." He popped the quarter out. "Or this?" Now Gilligan turned to Mary Ann and dropped his voice to a husky whisper. "Come vis me to ze Kasbah, ma cherie!"

The Professor folded his arms, sighing. "Gilligan, those are very entertaining on our island talent nights, but we've got to learn these lines by morning! No more impersonations, please! No Harvard graduates, no Frenchmen, no upper-class Englishmen, not anyone! Just try to sound like yourself."

"Whatever you say, Professor."

"And just leave off the 'old man' part for now, will you?"

"Okay."

The pair trooped back into the bathroom. Mary Ann waited a few seconds and called out. "Take five! Action!"

Again they came out, and again Gilligan said his line, this time in his own voice. "Now what's this all about, Professor?"

The Professor looked very sober. "Well, Gilligan, it's about my experiment concerning the Mayan Amulets."

Mary Ann looked up. "Professor, he's not Gilligan. He's Mr. Howell!"

"Oh!" The Professor tisked in annoyance. "Of course. Forgive me. I'm sure this will be simpler when I'm acting opposite the real Mr. Howell – I mean Jim, the actor who's playing Mr. Howell!"

Gilligan sighed. "We're never gonna get used to this."

"Well, let's just hope it won't be for long. Come on, Gilligan. Once more."

They disappeared again. Mary Ann looked at the script – they were only on page five – and shook her head. "Take six!"

The two performers took their places. "Now what's this all about, Professor?"

"Well, Mr. Howell, it's about my experiment concerning the Mayan Amulets: the ones that will get us of the island. I propose that if we simply—" The Professor trailed off as he noticed Gilligan's expression. "What is it, Gilligan?"

"Professor…you're not going to say your lines like _that_, are you?"

Roy Hinkley, celebrated lecturer, was taken aback. "Like what?"

"Like the Professor saying lines," said Mary Ann.

"What do you mean? I am the Professor saying lines!"

"But you don't sound like yourself, Professor. You sound like that robot we found!" Gilligan shrugged apologetically. "Can't you try to sound like you're just talking, the way you always do?"

"But I don't know what I sound like. I've never listened to myself!"

Mary Ann raised her eyebrows. "Who was it that said playing ourselves would be easy?"

Now it was the Professor's turn to look sheepish. "Well, it looks as though I was mistaken. It seems there's nothing harder than playing one's self, with lines somebody else has written!"

"That's okay, Professor." Gilligan smiled in encouragement. "At least you look the part. Once more?"

"Thanks, Gilligan. No, I'm played out. This has been an exhausting day – even if we did lose most of it in the transition from our world to this!"

"That's right," said Mary Ann, looking at the clock. "It was daybreak when we left the island and nearly sunset when we arrived here!"

"There must be some kind of warp in the space-time continuum. I'll have to factor it into my calculations in how to return to our world." The scientist yawned and stretched. "Well, we can get up early and go over our lines again. I think I'll go and change into my new pajamas and robe." He paused suddenly. "That is if you don't mind, Mary Ann."

She smiled mischievously. "I'd love to see them, Professor."

"His robe's really snazzy. It's got a big red Chinese dragon on the back," said Gilligan. "We found it in the bargain bin."

"Oh, my!"

The Professor refused to rise to the bait. "I'm sure Mr. Tomson will appreciate my thrift, if not my sartorial expertise. Now if you'll both excuse me!" With an air of great dignity he caught up a plastic department store bag and vanished into the bathroom again.

Mary Ann flipped the script closed and sighed. "If it weren't for you and the Professor, Gilligan, I'd think this was all a dream. Or that I'd lost my mind. Have I lost my mind?"

"If you have, I've lost it with you." Gilligan looked out of the balcony door to where the traffic growled in the distance. "At first I was so happy to be back, but now, with the three of us so alone…I'm just so glad I've got you and the Professor."

Mary Ann nodded. Her gaze wandered over the table, and she reached over and picked up a copy of the newspaper that lay there. A moment later she sat up and waved eagerly. "Hey! Gilligan!"

"What is it?"

"Turn the TV on to CBS! Channel Four! Hurry!"

"Hmmm?" Gilligan flipped the TV on and turned the channel. "What's on?"

"You'll see!" Mary Ann put her drink down, quivering with anticipation.

Gilligan flopped down on the bed nearest the table. "That chair doesn't look too comfy, Mary Ann. Why don't you get on the bed with me?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Gilligan gulped and sat bolt upright. "Oh, my gosh! I mean, have the bed to yourself? I mean, just while you're visiting our room?"

Mary Ann laughed. "I'm fine where I am, Gilligan." Then, as the first notes of the rollicking sea-shanty hit the air, they both turned to the screen and their eyes went wide.

"_Professor! Professor! Come quick!_"

Roy Hinkley dashed out with his colourful robe belted like a geisha's kimono. "What's the matter?"

"It's _us!_"

And sure enough, there was Gilligan standing proudly in all his gear and the Skipper smiling in front of the marina. The song rippled jauntily on.

"I only half-believed it," the Professor whispered as he absently sat down on the bed nearest the door. "We _are_ a tv show!"

They watched, open-mouthed, as the Minnow sailed out of Honolulu Harbour.

"Wow! It's the storm!" cried Mary Ann. "Gilligan, is that how it looked from outside the Minnow?"

"I don't know!" said Gilligan. "I was on it!"

The credits came on, framed in the ship's wheel, and as a tin whistle piped the first bar of the _Sailor's Hornpipe_, Gilligan whooped in surprise. "Oh my gosh! Look at me! I'm first! I'm the star!"

"You are!" gasped Mary Ann. "You're ahead of the Skipper!"

"And the Howells…and Ginger!" said the Professor.

"She'll never believe it!" Gilligan laughed, delight and disbelief shining in his eyes.

The Professor slumped a little as the last two faces appeared together. "Well…I guess we know where we rate, don't we, Mary Ann?"

Mary Ann hmmphed and looked at the insufferably grinning first mate. "I guess so!"

"_Here on Gilligan's Isle!" _blared the TV set, and the show went to commercial.

"Gilligan's Island! It really is named after me! The whole thing's named after me!" Gilligan was clapping his hands wildly. "I love this show!"

When the episode began, a native outrigger glided into the lagoon, paddled by a beautiful young native woman. "Hey!" said Gilligan. "That's Kalani! The girl that became my slave last week!"

"Apparently she's this week's episode," murmured the Professor. "Another anomaly in the space-time continuum!"

"Look out! She's drowning!" Mary Ann raised her arms in a cheer. "Hurray! Go, Gilligan! What a hero!"

Gilligan scowled slightly. "I remember her being a lot further out than that…but then, our lagoon's a lot bigger."

"Look at you carrying her in! Gosh! Was she heavy, Gilligan?"

"Yeah. She doesn't look it, but she was. I thought I was gonna drop her in the sand."

"Maybe you should have," Mary Ann muttered, remembering what had happened later. "On her ungrateful head!"

They watched, eagerly interjecting comments, until the climactic scene where the catatonic Gilligan was placed on a bamboo box on stilts above a native funeral pyre. The first mate shivered. "Boy, I'm sure glad I was asleep for most of that."

"I'm glad you were, too." Mary Ann was shivering as well. "It was horrible."

Suddenly the bamboo door of the hut opened and the actress who played Ginger drifted out, swathed in gauzy veils. As the castaways played on primitive drums, the woman began to dance.

"So this is Ginger's dance," whispered Gilligan.

"Yes," murmured the Professor. "We'd never have been able to stall the natives long enough without her."

"How long did she keep it up?"

"Hours."

Gilligan's eyes grew troubled. "She never told me that."

The drums, bells and rattles reverberated like a quaking heartbeat. "And all of you played for hours?" said Gilligan, watching intently.

"We would have played all night, if we had to," said Mary Ann simply.

Then came the moment when the impatient warrior Ugundi called for the dance to end. While the native guards held the castaways at spearpoint, Ugundi fetched a burning torch and set the kindling beneath Gilligan ablaze.

Even though it was just a show, even though they knew how it all ended, the three viewers sat mesmerized with horror. "Gilligan," murmured the Professor, "the Skipper and Mr. Howell and I had agreed. If everything else were to go wrong, if Ugundi started the fire, we three were going to drag you off of there, come what may."

Gilligan looked even more horrified than he already was. "But they had spears, Professor. They could have killed you!"

"Perhaps. But I for one think there are some things worth dying for."

"And one of them is you," said Mary Ann softly, pressing Gilligan's hand. She looked over at the television. "Shall I turn it off? We know the ending."

"Sure," Gilligan whispered as the girl slipped to her feet. He ran a shaking hand through his black hair. "Gee…and this show is supposed to be a comedy? Somebody's writing all these awful things to happen to us? Controlling us?"

Mary Ann came back. "I don't believe they're in charge of our destinies, Gilligan. Not completely, anyway. I believe we are. We, and somebody else: somebody higher than a bunch of writers, anyway. I'll always believe that."

Gilligan squeezed her hand briefly. "Thanks, Mary Ann." He looked very thoughtful. "I always did think it was more than just dumb luck that got us all together on the Minnow. I mean, look at us. Three years ago we didn't even know each other. And now—" He looked back at the now blank screen. "Look what you all did for me!"

"You've saved us from the savages more than once, Gilligan," said the Professor. "We were just returning the favour."

Suddenly Gilligan sat up. "The savages. Oh my gosh. On our island! The Skipper, the Howells, Ginger! They need us and we're not there to help them!"

"Calm down, Gilligan!" The Professor held up a reassuring hand. "After all, these people aren't about to write in next week's script that our friends are all killed by savages. They'd have no show!"

"Oh, yeah!" Gilligan heaved a great sigh of relief, but his brow clouded again. "But I just hate the idea of the Skipper being worried about us. And what if we can't get back? What if I never see him again? Professor, I just couldn't—"

"Now, now, that's enough of that. You're winding yourself up into a panic, Gilligan." He gripped Gilligan's shoulder. "I got you here. I'll get you back. You've got to stay strong, for the Skipper's sake. For all our sakes." He looked up at Mary Ann. "I promise you both – we'll get back."

For a few moments, all three were silent. Then Mary Ann stood up. "Well, fellows, I think I'd like to read a bit before I go to bed. I'm going to turn in."

Gilligan looked up. "You bought a book, Mary Ann?"

She smiled. "No, but there's one in the drawer by my bed. That's all I need. What time shall we meet for breakfast?"

"About sevenish?" the Professor suggested. "Gilligan has a shoot tomorrow morning at the lagoon set and I have some calculations to work on. I hope you don't mind getting up early."

She laughed. "Don't be silly, Professor. I come from a farm, remember? We get up with the rooster." She leaned over and kissed Gilligan's check. "Goodnight, Gilligan. Try not to worry, okay?"

"Okay. Goodnight, Mary Ann."

Walking past the bed, she stood up on her toes to kiss her other friend. "Good night, Professor. I really like that robe."

"Good night, dear," he chuckled. He saw her to the door and watched as she disappeared into her own room. Then he slid the latch and hastily struggled out of the robe. "At last! This ridiculous thing!"

Gilligan grinned. "I'm glad I decided to stick with a t-shirt!"

A few minutes later, they lay on their beds in the darkness as the curtains continued to waft in the breeze. "Aaah," the Professor sighed. "A nice, soft bed again. Now this is luxury."

"Mmmm hmmm." After a few moments, Gilligan rustled about restlessly. "Professor?"

"Mmmm?"

"Do you really think we'll be able to get back to the island? Or anywhere?"

"I'm certain of it, Gilligan. Good night."

"Good night."

Another pause.

"Professor?"

The Professor jerked and started. "Mmmmh? What is it, Gilligan?"

"Whose idea was that dance of Ginger's?"

"What? Oh – well, it was Ginger's idea. She insisted. She said she'd never forgive herself if anything happened to you."

"Oh."

The use was much longer this time. But eventually...

"Professor?"

How did the Skipper stand it? The Professor glanced over at the other bed in the darkness as the traffic rumbled and hooted outside. "Oh…what is it now, Gilligan?"

"I can't sleep. It's all these weird noises."

"Do you want to close the balcony door?"

"No. I like the fresh air. But maybe…"

"Maybe what?"

"Can you try to snore like the Skipper?"

The Professor's sigh was monumental, yet full of fondness. "Gilligan, I promise you: if you let me go to sleep, I'll try to snore like the Skipper. Do we have a deal?"

"Sure. Thanks, Professor."

"You're welcome. Goodnight, Gilligan."

"Goodnight, Professor." And then, very softly, "Goodnight, Skipper. Wherever you are."


	6. Chapter 6

Daybreak on the lagoon set saw the film crew making a few final tests to their equipment while Gilligan sat shivering in the cool morning air, frowning over his script. "_Gilligan reacts_?" he read aloud. "Reacts how? What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means nobody knows Gilligan better than you do," laughed a familiar voice behind him.

Gilligan's joy at hearing that voice nearly tripped him. "Hi, Skip—uh, I mean, hi, Alan." His joy ebbed as quickly as it had come.

"Alan, darling!" called Leslie Godwins. "You'll be glad to know they cleaned our lovely lagoon last evening. Should be perfect for a spot of bathing now!"

The first mate turned to see the Skipper's lookalike holding a cardboard tray with two Styrofoam cups.

"Can't wait!" Alan called over his shoulder with a touch of sarcasm, and offered one of the cups to Gilligan. "Thought you'd appreciate a coffee. It's a bit cool today." He cocked a quizzical eyebrow at his costar. "How are you and Dawn this morning? Everything okay?"

Gilligan took the cup gratefully. "Thanks. Dawn? Oh – oh yeah. We're okay."

"That was some performance last night in the car."

"Performance?"

Alan nodded, still watching Gilligan carefully. "You two had me a little worried."

"But we were just...uh...rehearsing a scene!" Gilligan looked up and flashed his most disarming smile. "Fooled Russell pretty good! Don't tell me we fooled you too!"

"You mean you--why you little wise guy!" Alan laughed good-naturedly. "Thank goodness!" The big man offered his pack of Belvederes. "Cigarette?"

Gilligan nearly jumped. "What? You threatened to break me in half if you ever caught me smoking!" Alan's stare of surprise sent Gilligan into damage control. "I mean, I mean, I hope you break me in half if you ever catch me smoking. I've quit!"

"You have, eh? Good for you! Looks like Russ has too. Wish I could." Alan fished out a cigarette, lit it, and stood puffing as he took a good look at Gilligan. "Say, it's doing you good, too. Makes you look younger." Now Alan's look turned into a stare as he leaned in closer. "About ten years, younger, actually. Wow!"

Gilligan gulped and scrambled for a way to divert his costar's attention. He craned his neck to watch the director fussing about with cameras angles. "Hey - did the director just say they cleaned the lagoon?"

Alan snorted. "Yeah, thank goodness. I wasn't about to go into that slop otherwise, or let you in. Remember that fish we put in the other day that floated to the top, dead? That could have been the two of us!"

Gilligan shuddered, looking out over the water. "Ugh! That's awful! And this lagoon's not half as beautiful as…" he stopped as he felt Alan's eyes on him.

"As beautiful as what?"

"Uh…as a real lagoon would be," Gilligan finished lamely.

Alan snorted again and shook his head. "I never thought about that. Guess shooting the pilot in Kauai kind of spoiled you, Bobby. I gotta say, though…I could've spent a bit longer on that island."

"So could I," Gilligan murmured.

Just then they heard Godwins' British accent burst out in a flash of upper-crust annoyance. "Oh, I say! This is too much! Have those infernal scribblers got nothing better to do?"

Gilligan and Alan turned to see a nervous young script girl with a pile of pink covered booklets. Godwins was waving one of them in disgust.

"Par for the course," Alan murmured, with another roll of his blue eyes.

"What do you mean?" asked Gilligan.

"At least we're only on the pink rewrite," Alan continued matter-of-factly. "Remember the last episode? I think we got all the way to chartreuse."

Godwins was flipping through his booklet in dismay as the script girl hurried up to Alan and Gilligan and handed them each a copy. "Sorry, guys," she murmured. "Something about the sponsors wanting more action."

"As if falling in the lagoon wasn't action enough!" laughed Alan in good-natured resignation.

Gilligan stared at the cover that read "Gilligan's Comedy of Errors: Revision #1" while Alan set his coffee on a prop rock and perused the document with a chuckle. "Hey – this rewrite's not bad. They've got some funny stuff in here."

"Rewrite?" Gilligan exclaimed. "I just learned all the lines from the first one!"

Leslie Godwins seemed to have the same idea. "Damn and blast! We've got to shoot this scene this morning! Are the Rams out of make-up yet?"

"Make-up and wardrobe," called the script girl, and pointed to a moving bush at the fringe of the jungle. "They're waiting just there."

Godwins sighed and tapped his ever-present riding crop against his boot. "It's no good. I'll have to give the actors a moment to look over their new lines."

Alan waved at him. "Never mind, Leslie. Here's a deal: Bob and I'll improvise on one condition."

Godwins frowned, tempted. "And what's that, pray?"

"That we don't have to go into the lagoon!"

The English director gave a great sigh and looked to heaven. "Oh, very well. You win, Alan, darling. Brigid, dear, clear that rubbish out of there and let's begin."

Gilligan handed his coffee and two scripts to the script girl before he knew what he was doing and made a half-hearted grab to get the pink one back. By this time, however, she had already taken Alan's cup, stubbed-out cigarette and scripts and scurried off.

Gilligan stood up and moved hesitantly towards Alan. "What do we do?" he whispered.

"Start from the green script, then follow my lead," Alan whispered back, with a non-chalance Gilligan envied terribly. "Just don't fall in the lagoon, that's all!"

"I'll try," Gilligan whispered, and Alan chuckled.

The great spotlights burned through the chill air as the cameras swung towards the red and blue shirted figures. A crewman held up the clapboard. "Gilligan's Comedy of Errors, scene 5, take 1!"

"Action!" shouted Godwins.

Alan started walking down the shore, Gilligan trailing behind. "Look at those footprints, little buddy!" said Alan. "I think we're not alone!"

"You mean it's Man Friday?" said Gilligan, trailing so close that when Alan stopped Gilligan bumped into him from behind.

"Doop! Gilligan!" Alan lowered his voice to the softest of whispers. "Nice one, Bob!" Then his voice resumed its normal boom. "You nincompoop! Of course I don't mean Man Friday!"

"Oh yeah!" said Gilligan, remembering his lines. "I forgot. Today's Wednesday!"

"Oooh!" The captain's hat hit Gilligan squarely on the head, and Gilligan was relieved to learn that it wasn't painful here either: just momentarily startling. "This is serious! There's a stranger on the island. It could be anybody!"

"Looks like manybody to me," said Gilligan, pointing to the confused mass of barefoot prints the set decorators had made in the damp sand.

"They've got no shoes!" exclaimed Alan. "And I'll bet they don't have shirts either!"

"Does that mean they get no service in this restaurant?" asked Gilligan, feeling nervous and wondering when Alan intended to start improvising.

He realized it with Alan's next line, which wasn't in the first draft. Alan pointed to the shaking bushes. "I think they're going to serve themselves! Look out!"

And to Gilligan's horror, out of those bushes burst three huge headhunters, armed to the teeth with spears and machetes.

Los Angeles, the film set, everything was forgotten in an instant as Gilligan saw their deadly old enemies advancing. He spun 'round to run and spotted two more muscular warriors emerging from the jungle behind them. "Skipper!" the first mate screamed in pure instinct and fairly jumped onto Alan's back, wrapping his arms around the burly actor's neck until he nearly choked him.

"Gilligan!" Alan gurgled, and yanked the smaller man's arms down until they spanned his chest. "That's great! Keep it up!" he whispered, then began to shout. "Let go of me!" He began to spin 'round in an attempt to shake Gilligan off.

But Gilligan was hanging on like grim death, his eyes scrunched tight and his legs flying out behind him as Alan spun faster and faster. Then suddenly Gilligan's feet connected with something solid.

"Oof!" came a yell, and then a loud splash.

Gilligan opened his eyes a slit to glimpse a headhunter splashing frantically in the lagoon as the world continued to spin. He shut his eyes again, and moments later came another thud, another oof, and another splash.

"Great idea, little buddy!" shouted Alan. The first mate suddenly felt powerful hands wrenching his arms free and slinging him 'round. He opened his eyes to find himself looking straight at Alan: straight because now he was actually was flying so fast he was horizontal. Alan was holding Gilligan's arms, leaning back and slinging him like a Highlander doing the hammer-toss. Gilligan fervently hoped he wouldn't get to the toss part.

Thud! Gilligan felt his feet connect with something again and gripped the grinning Alan's arms all the harder. _Splash!_

"That's three!" Alan roared, and actually laughed.

Gilligan was still lost in the terror of it all. "Behind you, Skipper!" he shrieked as he saw a warrior sneaking up with machete held high. Alan grimaced and swung 'round hard, and Gilligan oofed this time as he felt his whole body slam into another body. The blow broke his momentum and he felt himself being slung to the ground as he slid to his knees in the sand. Blinking, he looked up to see a headhunter go flailing backwards into the last headhunter, and both of them go tumbling headlong into the lagoon where the other three were already spluttering. Gilligan gasped heavily, the wind knocked out of him.

"Come on, little buddy!" boomed Alan, and Gilligan felt those powerful arms grasp him around the waist. The next thing he knew, the young sailor was lifted as though he were a skinny battering-ram as Alan charged for the edge of the jungle.

They had barely burst through the bushes when a British voice pulled Gilligan back to reality with one word. _"Cut!"_

And then came the laughter: a roaring chorus of cackles, hoots and guffaws as the entire crew, that had been biting their lips the whole time, let loose.

"Oh, my God! That was brilliant!"

"Those guys are better than Laurel and Hardy!"

"They make it look so easy! I thought I was gonna die!"

As Gilligan felt his feet touch the ground he reached up and clutched Alan's shoulder unsteadily. Wheezing and chuckling, Alan put an arm 'round the younger man's shoulders. "Whew! You okay there, Bobby?"

"Uh…I think so," Gilligan stammered, his heart still racing and his world still spinning.

"Boy, I hope the cameras caught all that! Come on, let's see if Leslie wants to do it again."

"Again?" Gilligan squeaked. He held on to Alan the big man pulled him back to the shore and the crew. The crew were still hooting and slapping one another on the back. When they saw the two stars approaching, they burst into cheers and applause.

"Great work, guys!"

"That was fabulous!"

Alan took his hat off and bowed, grinning, but Gilligan clutched his shoulder in terror as he saw the five sodden natives emerge from the lagoon. "Th-they're coming out!"

Alan laughed. "Don't you ever stop? The cameras aren't even rolling!"

"Huh?" Gilligan still cowered behind Alan as the tallest of the natives, his long black hair streaming, came striding up. To Gilligan's astonishment, the warrior pulled that black hair off to reveal a bald pate underneath.

"Wow!" the native laughed, in California accented English. "We could use you guys on the fifty yard line!"

"Yeah!" said another one, pulling ruefully at the soggy strands of his grass skirt. "I think Alan made a touchdown with you, Bob!"

Alan laughed. "Nothing you couldn't have done better, Roman."

Gilligan blinked. "Roman?"

"Yeah! I happened to run into the fellas yesterday in the canteen. This is Roman Archangel, the quarterback. These guys are the Los Angeles Rams!"

Gilligan's jaw nearly hit the sand as the rest of the muscular natives gathered around them. One pulled his grass-skirt off to reveal a pair of rolled up Armani jeans underneath. "Gee, I hope these don't shrink!" he laughed. "Nobody told me we were going in the lagoon!"

"Blame it on Gilligan! He did it again!" Alan handed his hat to the football player with elaborate ceremony, and Gilligan stared, too flummoxed to move, as what appeared to be a savage headhunter bopped him gently on the head instead of cutting it off.

"How'd you end up getting this gig again anyway?" asked Alan.

"My niece. She loves your show. I'd never have been able to face her if I turned the part down. And besides, I had so much fun when I played the native last season that jumped at the chance." said Roman. "Say…can I get an autograph for my niece later?"

"Sure!" said Alan. "I just love kids. Anyway, I imagine you fellas would like to get dried off. The lagoon gets pretty chilly these days! We should know, huh, little buddy?"

Gilligan gulped and nodded, still unable to speak. The "natives" shook hands with them. Roman was the last. "Listen: you guys ever need anything, you just let us know, okay?"

"Uh…okay," Gilligan burbled.

"See you 'round the studio," called Alan, as they trudged away.

Leslie Godwins waved at them. "Well done, darlings! I'd like a second take just to be safe, but we'll have to wait until our sports heroes dry off. Take a breather, gentlemen!"

Gilligan stared as the director's words slowly sank through the mists of fear that were clearing from his mind. "D-did he just say a second take?"

"Yeah," said Alan. "I think I'll try to swing you a little higher this time. It'll look funnier."

"Unnhhh…" Gilligan slumped down into the sand in a dead faint.

Alan stared down at him and burst into a delighted grin. "Hey, that looks great! Do that too!"


	7. Chapter 7

Mary Ann wandered along an avenue of aluminum-sided soundstages and parked cars, bewildered by the strange kaleidoscope of people, vehicles and creatures that flowed by. Maintenance men in blue coveralls and make-up girls with heavy kits hurried past swaggering civil war soldiers and sultry, evening-gowned beauties, past cowboys on tall horses and even a group of bubble-helmeted space aliens with three arms apiece in a rolling miniature flying saucer. It was all even stranger than the island…if that were possible.

Suddenly she heard the welcome, familiar tones of "Lovey! Lovey, my sweet!" right behind her. Breaking into a delighted smile, she was about to turn around when the familiar voice drawled on, "Whatever do you think you're doing, you silly bitch?"

Mary Ann halted in mid-turn, her smile freezing in disbelief. At last she turned to see to two very well-dressed figures accompanied by a tiny brown Chihuahua in a diamond collar. The little dog was sniffing inquisitively at the man's pantleg.

"M-Mr. Howell!" Mary Ann gasped. "D-did I just hear you say—"

Mr. Howell's mirror image grinned. "A thousand apologies, my dear Dawn. Wouldn't do in front of the CBS censors, would it? Silly old farts that they are. I'm just afraid this ridiculous creature will start making amorous advances towards my leg."

The woman with him rolled her eyes as she twirled her parasol. "Don't be ridiculous, Jim. Lovey's a girl! It's only the males that have nothing but sex on their minds--rather like their human counterparts. Don't you agree, Dawn?" She frowned. "Are you all right, Dawn dear?"

Jim looked concerned as well. "You look as though the canteen's been serving those breakfast burritos again. Avoid them like the plague, my dear. That chipotle sauce would burn the skin off Natalie's faux alligator bag."

Mary Ann swayed a little as the world went wobbly. She had seen Alan, and the TV episode, but this! It was impossible to think that these people were not Mr. and Mrs. Thurston Howell the Third, and yet impossible to think that they were.

Natalie's gloved hand flew to her mouth. "Heavens, Jim, run and get the girl some water! She's going to faint!"

"No, no, I'm all right. Oh." Mary Ann wiped her hand across her brow. "Oh…I've never heard anything like the two of you!"

"Oh, come now, dear." Natalie flicked a hand in dismissal. "You don't turn a hair when I ask you about your sex life, and I do it several times a week."

"You do, my dear, or Dawn does?" asked Jim.

Mary Ann's eyes widened to twice their size. She felt she would never be able to look Mr. and Mrs. Howell in the face again.

"Watch your language, you dreadful cad. There's a lady present."

"Well, I can see there's at least one, anyhow."

"Oh!" Natalie peered imperiously through her lorgnette. "Just for that, I'm going to improvise the pants off of you in our hut scene today."

"Is that a promise, my dear?"

Jim skipped lightly out of the way as Natalie aimed a friendly blow at him with her bag. "Go on, you poor old Vaudevillian has-been. Get going before I make you as blind as Mr. Magoo."

"Delighted, my dear antiquated beauty. Ta-ta, Dawn dear. See you at the shoot."

As Jim disappeared behind the huge soundstage doors, Mary Ann took a long, slow breath of astonishment. "It's amazing! The way you talk…but anyone can tell you're really both very fond of each other!"

"Of course we are, dear. I love old Jim to pieces. Wherever would I find another sparring partner like him?" The older woman reached out and touched the girl's arm fondly. "And what have you been doing with yourself this morning?"

"Oh, I got up to have breakfast with--" Mary Ann thought quickly "– with Russell and Bob." The thought of the Professor and Gilligan made her feel slightly more grounded. "Golly. It was delicious, but it felt so strange to eat a breakfast I didn't cook myself!"

"My, you are the industrious one! I consider making my own cup of tea an Olympic sport."

Mary Ann chuckled at the unexpected quip. "Then I sat and watched while the make-up artists got everybody all ready. My, they're so talented, those make-up men! I could have spent all day watching them!"

"Pick up any tips, dear? For me, I mean. You hardly need them."

"Oh no, no. Not that kind of make-up. It was amazing." Mary Ann's eyes lit. "They were gluing on beards with spirit-gum and working with wigs and doing all kinds of things. It was like magic, the way they made people look so different! They even let me practice a little!"

Natalie raised an eyebrow. "Well, I suppose everyone has his own idea of fun. Mine would be shopping on Rodeo Drive. Time to update my wardrobe.

At the word 'wardrobe', Mary Ann's eyes went incandescent. "Oh, the wardrobe department! That was even better! Oh, how I'd love to work on those darling beautiful costumes!"

"You'll be a designer someday, darling. I'm convinced of it!"

"Oh, my gosh, do you think so? Me, a designer? Oh, I'd love to do that! Imagine! Women all over, wearing my fashions! London, Paris, Rome…" Mary Ann heaved a sigh and gazed at the heavens like Dorothy looking for her rainbow.

"Well, then, no time like the present! After all, you're already famous, my dear. You can trade on your name, and we'll all be even more famous next year."

"Oh? Why do you say that?"

Natalie adjusted her broad-brimmed hat against the sun's glare. "Dear me, my love, don't you read the trade papers? Our ratings are over the moon. We're almost certain to be picked up for a fourth season. After all, you don't kill the cash cow. You keep it going, no matter what." She smiled ruefully and sighed. "So I suppose there's no going home to New York for me – at least not for a while!"

Her sad smile was mirrored by Mary Ann's. "No going home for any of us."

Little Lovey suddenly sent up a machine-gun volley of angry yips as a touring trolley filled with very fussily dressed women rolled into view.

"That's it, Lovey darling," cooed Natalie, flashing her teeth in a predatory smile that was very unlike Mrs. Howell. "About now I wish you were a boy. You could pee on the tire as they go past!"

Mary Ann blinked in surprise. "Gosh, Mrs.- I mean Natalie. The tourists don't mean any harm! They're just so excited to be here. They've been snapping my picture all morning, and they've been very sweet."

"These aren't your run of the mill tourists, dear," Natalie snarled gently. "You're still relatively new around here, but the old guard know that battle-axe when we see her."

"Why? Who is it?"

"Mrs. Richard Bailey and her entourage of high society parasites. She behaves as though she owns the place – just because her husband does."

"Oh," said Mary Ann, not daring to ask more. Fortunately, Natalie seemed to love to talk of nothing better.

"Did I say that cash was the bottom line as far as the network execs were concerned? Well, not Bailey. He's as hen-pecked as they go."

"Poor man."

"Poor man? Oh, please." Natalie rolled her eyes. "Any man that lets a harpy like that push him around deserves whatever he gets."

A deep, fruity female voice in an accent not unlike Mrs. Howell's was warbling on as the trolley drew nearer. Natalie elbowed Mary Ann in the ribs. "Here she comes. Sounds like someone singing Brunhilda in a Wagnerian Opera. Looks like it too. All she's missing are the blond braids and the horns."

As the trolley drew near they did indeed see one very large woman in a designer suit and a hat even larger than Natalie's holding forth at the front of the carriage. "And in a few moments, ladies, we shall arrive on the set of _Gunsmog_, the most successful program my husband's network has ever produced. We shall actually see the set where that splendid actor, James Harness, plays the Marshall!" She gave a fluttery sigh, and the ladies in the trolley clapped and "oohed" as if on cue.

The trolley ground to a halt as a wrangler led a string of horses across the road ahead. "Oh, look!" cried Mrs. Bailey. "One of those might be Mr. Harness's horses! What a horseman he is! Headquarters in the saddle!"

"Really, Mrs. Bailey?" quipped Natalie in a loud voice. "I thought that's where his hindquarters are supposed to be!"

Mrs. Bailey turned, and when she saw the speaker, her lips bent in a stiff smile. "Oh, it's you, Ms. Schliffer. Miss Bells. What, no filming today? Your writers run out of inane ideas, have they?"

"Who are these people, Eugenia?" asked one of the women in the trolley.

Mrs. Bailey's tone was honey laced with acid. "Oh, I'm not surprised you don't know them, Emily. They're part of a little sitcom that's hung on for three years. I've heard its largest audience is children: not surprising, of course, considering that most of the humour derives from that people being hit with coconuts. I believe one of the critics said one wouldn't even know it was written for adults."

"I guess that's why we've won our evening slot every year." said Natalie sweetly. "Even though your husband moves us around like a game of Chinese checkers."

"There's no accounting for taste," purred Mrs. Bailey. "After all, your little show is hardly Shakespeare."

"You mean you missed the Hamlet episode?"

Mrs. Bailey's penciled eyebrows buckled. "I beg your pardon?"

"The one set to Carmen and the Tales of Hoffman. Oh, dear." Natalie's smile could have frozen beer. "Those are operas, my dear. Not horse operas. The kind with music, not manure."

Mrs. Bailey swelled up like a ruffed grouse. "Wilkins! Are those horses out of our way yet?"

The driver called back. "All clear, ma'am!

Mrs. Bailey flashed a set of teeth as gleaming as her pearls. "So sorry I can't stay, Natalie dear. I'm hosting a rather important party at my penthouse this afternoon. The cream of society will be there – including Mr. James Harness himself! Do have a lovely afternoon, ladies. And try not to get hit by the coconuts." She called forwards. "Carry on, Wilkins!"

The trolley hummed and trundled forward as Natalie shook her head. "Poor James Harness. He's going to wish somebody had headed him off at the pass."

"Can't he get out of it?" said Mary Ann

"He'd be a fool if he did. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, as they say. Besides, that penthouse of hers is a fairly swanky affair, I'm told. Right in the heart of Beverly Hills. Sunken living room, sauna, wrap-around terrace. A nice little home away from home. Thankfully it's a fair distance from the studios, so she's not around here much. Oh, she makes me tired, that woman." Yawning elegantly, Natalie looked at her watch. "We've a little time before the next shoot begins. Care for a stroll?"

"Uh…well…" Mary Ann had a horror of becoming lost in this place. It would look far too strange if she were suddenly stopping people and asking for directions. "I think that as long as I'm here at our soundstage, I'll just pop in and see how the Professor – I mean Russell is doing."

"Very well, dear. Ah, such a come down, shooting in a soundstage, I mean."

"How's that?"

"Things were a trifle more realistic when we shot the pilot in Hawaii." Natalie put her hand to her mouth in embarrassment. "Oh, dear…but you weren't there! They had that little blonde playing the secretary instead. Confidentially, dear, you were a great improvement.

Mary Ann momentarily grappled with the idea of some blonde secretary – another woman – being _her_. "Well, thank you! I just couldn't imagine Mary Ann being played by anyone else!"

"Indeed. And that other girl did get a free trip to Hawaii out of it. So did we all. Ah, Hawaii!" she sighed dreamily. "Such a beautiful place! Have you ever been there?"

"Once," said Mary Ann, smiling.

"You know, I make no secret of the fact that I truly thought this show would fail! I never was much for farce comedy. The free trip to Hawaii was my sole inducement for signing on! But you know, my dear, even though it didn't turn out the way I expected, I wouldn't change a thing. I made some of the dearest friends I've ever had." Natalie shook her head sadly. "But someday our little island will be no more. What will I ever do without them?"

It was with difficulty that Mary Ann swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. "I don't know," she murmured.

Natalie patted her arm again. "Don't worry, my dear. We'll keep in touch, I promise. Well, I'll see you shortly!" With a smile and a flick of her lorgnette, Natalie and little Lovey strolled away.

Waving goodbye, Mary Ann slipped inside the soundstage doors. Once within, she stared about in wonder. The giant hanger of a building was a dark Aladdin's cave of strange discoveries: lofty catwalks, camera cranes and dollies, tall, swiveling spotlights, and everywhere scurrying folk carrying clipboards, stacks of scripts, potted plants and every kind of prop imaginable. At last she spotted the Professor and rushed to meet him. "Boy, am I glad to see you!" she cried.

"Hello, Dawn," he called, unusually loud. Putting an arm about her shoulder, he whispered, "Let's keep our voices down if we want to talk as ourselves, not our counterparts. Godwins and the crew are right over there."

"Oh – all right." She spoke softly, looking around. "I just met the actors who play the Howells. It was bizarre!"

"I know. I just met Jim myself. This is all tremendously disconcerting!"

"Is Gilligan here?"

"No, not yet. Apparently he and Alan were shooting scenes at the lagoon all morning. They're just having a quick break before they join us."

"I see. Did Gilligan manage all right?"

The Professor nodded, impressed. "Just fine. Nobody's on to him at any rate, and the crew all seem to think he's awfully funny. But apparently he was delayed half an hour signing autographs for his adoring fans!"

The girl sighed and put a hand to her forehead. "How on earth do these actors manage? Somebody brought three huge sacks of fanmail to my dressing room this morning! Oh, Professor, my head hurts. I could use a healthy dose of reality right now!"

He shrugged apologetically. "You're not going to get it here, I'm afraid. Have a look."

Mary Ann looked to where he was pointing and had to rub her eyes to make sure she wasn't dreaming. "Oh, my gosh…it can't be!"

Standing before them was their island camp, and yet it was as weirdly wrong as the landscape of a dream. The blue sky and lush jungle were a huge cyclorama painting that spanned the stage and rose twenty feet above it. Above this blazed a fierce row of spotlights suspended from the gridwork of an iron truss, while higher still loomed the soaring darkness under the roof. Down below five bamboo huts huddled around the communal bamboo table as if in fear of the army of cameras and microphones that glowered at them. In front of the stage, Leslie Godwins and his crew were busily manoevering their equipment into position.

Mary Ann put a hand to her mouth. "My flowers! They've even got the flowers I planted in our window box last month! Oh, Professor, seeing ourselves on tv last night was bad enough, but this!"

"Extraordinary, isn't it?" he murmured, only half-listening in his fascination. "The synergy between our two dimensions is unprecedented."

"Downright creepy is what I call it!" she said, shivering. "I'm almost half afraid to look in my window! I'd hate to see my room with all my things here."

Her fearful tone snapped him out of his trance, and he turned to face her. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I'd start to think that maybe I'm not real. That someone else…dreamed me up!"

The Professor shook his head reassuringly. "It's not dreams, Mary Ann. It's science. Come on – let's make some laboratory tests. They might make you feel a bit better."

He took her hand and together they stepped onto the stage, faltering at the unforgiving hardness beneath the sand. Mary Ann scratched at it with her foot. "This ground! There's no earth underneath it! It's made of wood!"

The Professor wandered over and fingered one of the innumerable potted bushes that stood crowded alongside small trees all the way along the stage. "These plants aren't real. They're made of plastic!"

Astonished, Mary Ann went to the table and picked up a bamboo tumbler. "This cup! It's made of glass!"

With a smile and a lift of an unsurprised eyebrow the Professor strolled over to his own hut and peeked in the window. "Don't worry, Mary Ann. No one's going to find out if you haven't swept your hut lately."

"What do you mean?"

"Come have a look."

She hurried over and peered past the wooden door. "Why, there's nothing! Not even a back wall! It's only the front façade!"

The Professor nodded. "You see, Mary Ann? This is all just a copy. It's like the story Plato told of the cave where men saw only shadows of the world outside. For them, the shadows were reality. Then one day one man escaped and saw the real world outside."

"And what happened to him?"

"He couldn't believe his eyes. And when he got back, nobody believed him. They all thought he'd lost his mind."

Mary Ann rolled her eyes. "I know how he feels! When we go back, that's what our friends will say to us!" She bit her lip. "If we get back, that is."

He gripped her gently by the shoulders. "We will get back, Mary Ann. I promise you. Now don't lose your spirits – or your mind!"

She smiled. "I'll do my best. Thanks, Professor."

Just then Jim appeared, amusement glinting in his dark, clever, ageless eyes. "Hullo Dawn, Russell! Well - just when we were certain they couldn't get any sillier on us. Jumping in the lagoon and disappearing! Only an idiot would believe such rubbish!"

He mounted the stage, flipping idly through a pink copy of the script. "And we're on the second version, I see. Not bad, considering it's only the second day of shooting." The man looked up and noticed the Professor's green copy. "Not got yours yet, Russell? Good heavens, do they expect you to memorize a whole new selection of silly scientific gobbledegook in minutes? What do they think you are, a Professor?"

Jim chortled heartily at his own joke while Mary Ann bit back a smile. The Professor, meanwhile, frowned at the pink copy as though it were a student's report submitted a week late. "No, I didn't get one. Did you get one, M-uh, Dawn?"

"I did, actually. They'd brought it to my dressing room this morning. I thought you already had yours."

"No, I didn't." He sighed in frustration. "I'm afraid I was doing some exploring this morning and didn't visit my dressing room."

"What a shame, my dear boy! They delivered it to my door this morning." Jim grinned affably. "Oh, pshaw, Russell, don't look so downcast. You'll be fine! I'm forever amazed at the way you manage to reel off all of those multisyllablic horrors. And to think that when they auditioned you they made you take off your shirt. You are _so_ much more than just a pretty face!"

The Professor's eyebrows bounced as though on a trapeze as Mary Ann burst into helpless peals of laughter. Blushing, the scientist tugged at his buttons as though to make sure they were still done up.

Godwins looked up from the floor. "I say, Jim dear, Russell darling. Chop chop. Places please. Just like in rehearsal yesterday. Dawn, my love, you can be off to stage right, waiting for your cue." At that moment the director spotted the Professor's green script and grabbed a great hankful of his blond hair. "Oh, give me strength! Don't tell me you haven't got your pink copy yet, Russell?"

The Professor looked helplessly from Jim to the director and shrugged. Jim stepped forward before the Englishman had a coronary.

"Leslie, old man, Russell's lines are all the same. Why don't we just wing it for a space? All Russell has to do is watch for my cue when I finish, and if he has a problem I can simply ad lib."

The Englishman raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Ad lib, eh? Did you have a hand in Russell's script vanishing, by any chance?"

"Me?" The familiar face broke into Howell's impish grin. "Now what reason could I possibly have to do that? It's not as though I ever improvise, is it?"

"Well – you're the best damned ensemble cast I've ever known so – very well. Give it a go. We've got to get these scenes shot, for heaven's sake! George! Where are the Professor's props?" A stagehand rushed up to hand the Professor a slide rule, pencil and sheets of paper. Godwins beckoned imperiously. "George, grab their scripts, will you? Nobody got any cigarettes in their hand? Right-o. Places!"

The Professor started towards the façade of his hut, but stopped when Jim didn't follow him. "Uh…"

The director scowled. "What is it, Russell?"

The scholar pointed to Jim. "Isn't he supposed to come out of my hut with me? 'Mr. Howell and the Professor exit Professor's hut and appear by bamboo table?"

Mary Ann called over. "That's one of the changes in the new version. You exit alone now and discover Mr. Howell seated on the chaise lounge."

"Well done, my dear," said Jim. He looked down at the crew. "The shot begins with the camera trained on me, doesn't it, Leslie? Then after a minute of two, Russell walks in?"

"Yes, Jim," sighed the director.

"Ta, ta, Professor." Jim waved cheerily. "Exit, stage left."

Thoroughly confused, the Professor ducked into the façade of his hut and waited behind the wall. At last he heard a voice call out, "Gilligan's Comedy of Errors, Scene 2, Take 1."

Then came Godwin. "Lights, camera, action!"

The Professor opened the door to the hut and walked straight out into the blinding stage lights. Instinctively he threw his arm over his eyes.

"_Cut!_"

The Professor tentatively lowered his arm as the glaring lights faded. He blinked rapidly, but could only see blobs out in the stygian black.

"Russell, you bally fool, what are you doing?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Godwins," he stammered into the darkness. "That light! It's unbearable!"

"Oh, for pity's sake! It's nothing you don't face every day! Well, pretend it's the tropical sun or something!"

"What?"

He could see coloured blobs now. Jim's voice came floating from somewhere on his right. "Shade your eyes and murmur, 'Oh! That's a hot day!' or some such thing. Then look away. That ought to do it."

"Oh…all right. Shall I try it again?"

"Do, please," muttered Godwins, sinking into his folding chair.

The Professor fumbled his way back into the hut's façade, grateful for its relative shadow.

"Action!" called Godwins.

The Professor came out again, this time with his arm already in place. "Oh my. The sun is very hot today."

"Cut!" roared Godwins.

The Professor lowered his arm. "What is the matter now?"

He could hear Jim chuckling off to his right. "What are you meant to be, Russell? A cigar-store Indian?"

"Russell!" This was Godwins again. The Professor could see that he was on his feet. "Kindly infuse some life and natural emotion into your performance, if it isn't too much trouble!"

"Like this!" called the shadow that was Mary Ann. "Oh! Good heavens, that sun's bright!"

"Oh." The Professor blinked. "Shall I try it again?"

"If you would be so kind," Godwins gritted through his teeth.

Blushing to the roots of his hair, the Professor turned and disappeared into his hut again.

"Gilligan's Comedy of Errors, Scene 2, Take 3," someone called (unnecessarily loudly, thought the Professor).

"Action!"

The Professor stepped out. "Oh! Good heavens, that sun's bright!" When nobody shouted to stop him, he breathed a sigh of relief and crossed to where Jim was lying on the chaise, sipping from one of the bamboo tumblers. "Mr. Howell? May I speak to you for a moment?"

Jim looked up, and suddenly it was as though the spirit of Thurston Howell the Third had thoroughly possessed him. "Now what's this all about, Professor, old man?"

The Professor was thankful they'd rehearsed this scene in the hotel room, even if parts were changed. At least he could seem half-way professional. Assuming his most scholarly tone, he recalled, "Well, Gilligan, it's about my experiment concerning the Mayan Amulets."

"_Cut!_ Gilligan???"

Roy Hinkley winced. He heard Mary Ann's tentative voice over the groaning of the director. "Uh…that's not Gilligan, remember? That's Mr. Howell."

"_Thank you_, Miss Bells! Russell!!"

It wasn't often that the Professor felt out of his depth, but now he was floundering. "I-I'm very sorry, Mr. Godwins. I'm afraid I didn't get much sleep last night. Shall I – start again?"

"Yes! I mean no." Godwins sighed. "Just start from where you greet Howell. We'll cut it in from there."

"All right." He stood up straight. "Mr. Howell?"

"Russell!"

"Yes?"

Godwin's voice had taken on a tinge of sorrow. "May I please say 'action' before you begin?"

"Oh…of course."

"Thank you." There was a pause, as though for prayer. "Action!"

"Mr. Howell? May I speak to you for a moment?"

Jim was as cool as the lights were scorching. He rose languidly from the chaise, drink in hand. "Now what's this all about, Professor, old man?"

"Well, Mr. Howell, it's about my experiment concerning the Mayan Amulets." The Professor could hear the sigh of relief from the director's chair.

Jim clutched his arm in excitement. "My dear chap, I'm behind you all the way! This will simply revolutionize the travel industry!"

The Professor blinked for a minute. Then he stammered, "Uh…it will?"

"Why, of course! Virtually no overhead: no need to buy a fleet of jumbos or pay salaries for thousands of pilots or stewardesses or airplane mechanics. Heavens, we won't even need coffee, tea or milk! Just the amulets!"

The Professor had no idea when to leap in. Seeing this, Jim grinned and ad libbed on. "But people will pay, Professor! Dollars, Deutchmarks, Lira, Yen! They'll pay from all over the world for such a safe and simple means of travel. I'll make millions! They'll have to invent a whole new income tax bracket!" He looked at the Professor in pity, and at last said what the Professor was waiting for. "So you simply must get Gilligan to dive down into the lagoon and find more of these marvelous things!"

For a moment the Professor didn't speak. Jim eyed him nervously. "Well, Professor? What do you say? About my plan, my splendid plan? Is it…_simple_?"

"Oh!" The word snapped the Professor out of his daydream. "No! No, it's not that simple, Mr. Howell!"

"Well, what do you mean? I'll pay the dear lad fifteen dollars an hour. Double that on weekends. And I'll enroll him in the company pension plan – with regular payroll deductions, of course."

Again the Professor stood as if pole-axed. Jim rolled his eyes. "I could even send _Gilligan_ on a holiday to _Mexico!_"

The Professor jumped at the cue. "Mexico! Oh, yes! Yes, well, that's where the rest of the amulets are, if they even exist at all. Gilligan won't have much luck diving in our lagoon for them."

Jim seemed to decide that perhaps this was not the best day to ad lib. This time he kept it simple, for which the Professor was grateful. "Details, details! Professor, you've got to think big!"

"But I haven't worked out all the details, Mr. Howell!" At least here was some dialogue the Professor could feel comfortable with. "The hydrostatic and photostatic properties, the interface of the positive and negative ions in the atmosphere, the synergy of the lunar tides – it's all interconnected!"

"Good grief, Professor! All that and you put Gilligan in charge of finding the amulets? What were you thinking?"

"He's the best swimmer on the island, Mr. Howell. He simply does what I tell him."

Jim threw an arm about the Professor's shoulders. "Then you'll be the head of my organization, Professor! Planning flights all around the globe! I'll give you your very own research laboratory. No more building nuclear reactors out of coconuts for you, old boy!"

The Professor frowned. "I never built a--" he oofed as Jim's arm left his shoulder and elbowed him in the ribs. "a—oh, yes. Of course. But we still have a long way to go, Mr. Howell. We're not out of the woods yet."

"And _cut!_"

The great lights dimmed, revealing the crew, Godwins and Mary Ann like ghosts appearing out of the darkness. "What did I do now?" called the Professor unhappily.

"Nothing," said Godwins. "You got through it, Russell old man, thanks to Jim here. Let's just hope the rest of the scene goes all right." He turned around. "Are the rest here yet?"

"I'm not the rest, Leslie darling. I'm in the first season credits, remember?" Natalie had stolen up behind Mary Ann. "I saw most of that. Jim, you old scene-stealer. I don't know why they bother writing lines for you – or anybody else, for that matter."

Jim blew her the unmistakable kiss of a very old friend. "You're too kind, my sweet. En guarde!"

"But I think you're going to have to share the limelight today, Jimmy. Listen! Hail the conquering hero comes!"

The Professor and Mary Ann turned as a noise came rolling through the soundstage like wide, slow-moving ocean swell.


	8. Chapter 8

So loud was the noise that the Professor and Mary Ann took a moment to realize it was laughter: laughter and wild applause. Slowly the great wave of noise neared and finally crashed over them, with the crew up on their feet waving and stomping. As the sea of bodies parted, out trudged a grinning giant in blue with a skinny, red-shirted figure perched on his shoulders. Cheers rose to the rooftop.

"There he is! What a genius!"

"Best in the biz!"

"How does he do it? Makes it look so natural!"

The Professor and Mary Ann looked at one another as Alan hunkered down and let Gilligan slide off. When the big man slung his arm around Gilligan's shoulders, the first mate tottered. "Boy, Bobby, I gotta say it. You've done some funny stuff before, but today was the most brilliant I've ever seen you! Today you really _are_ Gilligan!"

Gilligan leaned wearily against his co-star. "You can say that again," he murmured.

Mary Ann stared at the two of them. "What happened? What's everybody cheering about?"

Alan roared with laughter. "You should have seen him, honey. He was a walking catastrophe! Everything he touched he either banged into or tripped over or fell off or got tangled up in. I thought he should have used a stunt guy, but no stunt guy could have done what he did. Oh, when he grabbed this vine and tried to swing into the jungle—"

"They're ropes. They don't act like real vines," Gilligan muttered.

"And he swung right out into the lagoon and dropped in! Biggest splash I ever saw! Poor guy was like an ice cube when he came out!"

"That lagoon is _freezing!_ The island's supposed to be in the tropics!"

"Heh, heh." Alan jostled Gilligan's shoulder again. "As if you didn't know how cold that lagoon was. But we soon got you warmed up and dried off. You're a trooper, Bobby! A real trooper!"

"I hope you didn't lose your amulet in all that excitement," said the Professor , suddenly very worried.

For answer, Gilligan silently fished the amulet out of his collar and waved it. The Professor and Mary Ann heaved a sigh of relief. "Are you okay?" Mary Ann asked.

Gilligan yawned and groaned. "Okay? I think I'd rather be back in boot camp doing battle station drill!"

Alan did a double-take. "You were in the army, Bobby?"

Half-asleep, Gilligan frowned in annoyance. "_Navy_, Skip—oh. Oh yeah. Just kidding, Alan." He lurched forward, eyes closed, and Mary Ann caught him before he toppled over.

Alan grabbed him by the waist to steady him. The movement caught Leslie Godwins's eye as he peered into a camera lens and he looked up in concern. "I say! What's the matter with our star? He's not ill, is he?"

"Just tired, I think, Mr. Godwins." Alan gave Gilligan a light tap on the cheek. "Come on, Bobby! Up and at 'em!"

"Mmmmh…at who?"

"Come on." He gave Gilligan a bit of a push, and the first mate stumbled forward and finally saw the stage. His sleepy blue eyes fluttered in amusement.

"Hey, that's cute. Like when we used to play house. Who's playing Island?"

"Heavens, the poor devil's somnambulent!" cried Godwins. "He's got to be on the catwalk in this scene!"

"I'm a model?" mumbled Gilligan.

"You're in mid-air! Revision number two!" Godwins tapped his pink script in annoyance. "You need to get up there and into harness – literally!" He turned to one of the stagehands. "George, get him up there and buckled in. Everyone else: positions, please! Jim and Russell, as you were."

The Professor and Jim returned to their places near the chaise as Natalie and Mary Ann hid in the jungle foliage at the end of the stage. With surprising grace, Alan silently glided behind the bushes on the other side. But the Professor and Mary Ann hardly noticed him; they were staring upwards in worry as they watched the progress of the wobbly first mate and the stage hand up the ladder high above the stage. At last the two climbers finally reached the level where the great black spotlights brooded beside the catwalk, and the two castaways below held their breath as Gilligan's foot flailed at empty air before hitting the safety of the boards. They only remembered to breathe again as they saw the stage-hand haul Gilligan onto the catwalk, where two more crewmen appeared.

"Right then," said Godwins. "Russell, Jim, we'll pick up from the line, 'We're not out of the woods yet,' and do a cutaway. Ready? Quiet on the set! Lights, camera – action!"

"We're not out of the woods yet!"

Mary Ann and Natalie hurried out of the greenery. "Not out of the woods, Professor?" cried Mary Ann. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that the properties of these amulets are obscure and unpredictable. There's no telling what strange fluctuations they may cause in the space-time continuum!"

"Some of Thurston's properties are exactly the same, Professor," said Natalie-as-Mrs. Howell. "Consolidated Acme fell fifty points on the Dow Jones only this morning!"

Jim rolled his eyes. "Lovey, my dear, we'll corner the Dow Jones, the FTSE and the Hang Seng if only I can get my hands on this property!"

"But as I was saying, Mr. Howell," the Professor continued, starting to get the hang of this, "the other amulets may well be in Mexico!"

"Oh, dear," said Natalie. "Does that mean we'll have to bargain? But I just can't resist those dear little children in the bazaars. I always give them exactly what they ask for. I do so love their charming little sombreros."

Alan suddenly came striding into their midst. "Say, has anyone seen Ginger and Gilligan? I'm getting worried about them. I don't much like the idea of them being off on their own if there are savages about!"

"Ginger's washing her hair in the hut," said Mary Ann. "I've no idea where Gilligan is. Golly, I hope he's all right!"

Now they had gone off the green script again. The Professor looked pleadingly at Mary Ann.

"Oh!" she cried, realizing. "Professor, do you think he had one of the amulets on? Do you think it might have…done something _strange_ to him?"

"Uh—uh, yes! Yes, indoubtedly, Mary Ann! Something very strange!"

"Like what?" Alan asked.

The Professor considered socking him, but thought better of it. Natalie, however, realized that her costar was fishing desperately for prompts and obliged. "Dear me, Professor, it won't give the dear boy some strange power, will it?"

"Because we all know that his little head is _lighter than air_," urged Jim.

The Professor stared at them all as though they were speaking ancient Hebrew. He could almost hear the hiss of the steam coming out of Leslie Godwins' ears. Finally Mary Ann fairly shouted, "IT WON'T MAKE HIM FLY, WILL IT?"

The Professor gaped at her and momentarily forgot he was supposed to be acting. "What? What on are you talking about? The amulets can't make you fly!"

It was at that moment that they heard the scream.

What had happened was this. On the catwalk, the stagehands had fumbled with Gilligan's shirt, searching frantically underneath. "Hey Joe!" George whispered fiercely. "Where do I hook these wires? I can't find the harness!"

"I can't either!" whispered the other. "Hey, Colorado? Where's your harness? Wardrobe was supposed to outfit you!"

Gilligan sagged forward, snoring.

"What do we do, George?" asked Joe.

His partner shrugged unhappily. "I guess we gotta tell Prince Phillip down there to yell cut. Geez, is he gonna be sore." He and Joe turned to climb down, and in doing so both let go of Gilligan's shirt. Gilligan lurched forwards again 'till he was leaning on the railing on the edge of catwalk, close to the gridwork of the truss that held the great spotlights. But his centre of gravity was above the railing, and just as he began to topple over, he heard the Professor's voice, dim, as in a dream.

"The amulets can't make you fly!"

And in an instant Gilligan knew that this was very, very true. He screamed and clutched frantically at the only thing to hand: a guy-rope that hung from the truss. He swung wildly, spinning and whirling, in a long, Tarzan arc from one side of the stage to the other. "Skipper! _Skipperer!_"

Everyone stared upwards, mouths open. "Hang on! Don't panic!" cried the Professor.

"Oh, my God, he hasn't got his harness on!" shouted Alan. "Bobby! Grab the truss!"

"Heads will roll for this!" howled Godwins.

Stagehands were swarming up the ladders and stampeding onto the wobbling catwalk. They held out broom handles, boom mikes, anything to try to reach the figure sailing twenty feet above the hard stage. "Come on, Colorado! Grab hold!" But blinded by the glare of the lights and stricken with fear, Gilligan could only clutch the rope and swing like a human pendulum.

"Pretend you're in the jungle!" screamed Mary Ann. "Climb!"

Something in that voice kicked in. Gilligan began to snake his way up the rope as his arcs grew ever smaller. At last he kicked his legs up and hooked them around the lower strut of the truss. Dropping the rope, he arched up and tried to grab the strut, but grabbed a light instead and yelped as he touched the hot metal. He flopped back, hanging upside-down by his knees. His sailor's cap floated to the floor.

Alan rushed to the centre of the stage. "Get off the stage, everybody!" he roared, and castaways and actors alike scrambled to obey. "Don't worry, Bobby!" he called up, lifting his huge arms. "If you fall, I'll catch you!"

But Gilligan had arched himself up again, and this time managed to grab part of the truss and haul himself up like a monkey. He kicked one of the lights as he squirmed, spinning it on its bracket.

A cheer of relief erupted from below as everyone saw that Gilligan was relatively safe. He began to crawl cautiously towards the beckoning stagehands, who were leaning so far over the catwalk with arms outstretched that it seemed they might fall at any moment too. At one point Gilligan's foot slipped and he kicked the same light, spinning it like a top.

As Gilligan neared the catwalk, Alan left the stage and came to where the rest of the cast and crew were standing, about twenty feet back. "That's it!" he called. "You're nearly there!"

At last Gilligan was able to reach out and clasp one of the outstretched hands, and suddenly a whole hoard of hands was literally hauling him forward onto the catwalk, where he sank in a shivering huddle on the floorboards.

Mary Ann and the Professor hugged each other in relief, and the whole soundstage burst into applause. Moments later though, it was Natalie who screamed as she stared up at the truss. "Look out!"

The light that Gilligan had kicked suddenly fell, plummeting, onto the bamboo table and smashed right through it onto the floor. Glass shattered and sparks flew. Some enterprising soul raced up with a fire extinguisher and sprayed the flickering wires with foam. In moments the island's camp looked like the first Christmas snowfall had come.

The applause had stopped. Nobody moved. When the stage hands appeared with the still-trembling Gilligan in their midst, Godwin ran a slow hand over his own face.

"Are you feeling all right, Mr. Colorado?"

"I – I think so," Gilligan said, still hanging on tight to the stagehands.

"Would you like to have a break for a cup of tea?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fine then." Godwins lifted his black beret and mopped his aristocratic brow. "Tea break, everyone."

Sam the lighting man looked at him. "Uh – 'til when, Mr. Godwins?"

Godwins almost began to laugh. "'Til tomorrow, Sam. I don't believe we're shooting on this set again today! They'll have to have the fire marshall in. We'll just have to shoot most of the episode tomorrow!" He giggled a little manically, then turned to Gilligan, the Professor and Mary Ann. "I'll still expect to see you three at the lagoon set this evening, though. At least that's still intact." He wandered off, still giggling. "Perhaps we'll be on the third rewrite then!"

Mary Ann rushed to hug Gilligan. "Oh, what a scare you gave us! I thought they had put the harness on you!"

Gilligan shrugged with a nervous jerk, his eyes still so wide they appeared lidless. "So that's what it was. I thought it was some funny kind of underwear. I took it off."

"Why?"

"It itched me!"

The Professor squeezed his shoulder. "You do as you're told, young man. From now on!"

"Aye aye, sir."

Alan shook his head, arms folded. "Improvising is great, Bobby, but we can't use that in the show. Were you out of your mind?"

Just then one of the stage hands popped down from the set. "We've got your slide rule and paper, Russ. And your hat, Bob. Guess you can save them for later. It'll take us awhile to clean up that broken light."

"Oh. Thank you." The Professor suddenly gasped and looked back at the wreckage of the light, lying amid the ruins of the bamboo table. "The light!" he gasped. "I wonder – I just wonder!"

"What is it?" asked Mary Ann, seeing the fire that had sprung up in his eyes.

Roy Hinkley clutched his slide rule. "A hunch. I just need to make a few calculations. Can you take care of him for a moment?"

"Sure, Professor."

"All right. I need to find somewhere quiet where I can make my calculations. I'll be right back."

As the Professor hurried off, Jim shook his head. "Sometimes I think that fellow takes his role far too seriously." He sighed and adjusted his cravat. "Well, all that excitement's made me thirsty. What do you say, folks? Shall we fetch some coffees from the trolley?"

"Do let's," said Natalie. "We're only underfoot here anyhow."

"I'd love one," said Alan. "You two want to come with us?"

Mary Ann still kept her arms around Gilligan's waist as he pulled his hat onto his head in a daze. "We'll stay here. I think Bob just needs some quiet."

"All right." The three actors turned to go when Gilligan suddenly called after them.

"Alan?"

He turned. "Yeah, Bob?"

Gilligan's eyes were sober now. "Thanks for what you did back there. You tried to save my life. You're really a lot like the Skipper. You're a good big buddy."

Alan harrumphed a little in embarrassment. "Think nothing of it, little buddy. Well, we'll be back in a few minutes. See you." He turned and glided off after Natalie and Jim.


	9. Chapter 9

Once they were gone Mary Ann took Gilligan by the arm and pulled him away from the set, out of the chaos of rushing stage hands and carpenters, until they reached a relatively calm spot near some of the actors' folding chairs.

Gilligan folded his arms and refused to meet her eyes. "I guess if they'd known I was the real Gilligan, they wouldn't even have let me on the set! I don't know how I do it, Mary Ann."

"Oh, come on now, Gilligan! It wasn't your fault. This place is strange to all of us! You've been coping pretty well, considering."

"Considering what?"

Her soft brown eyes were filled with understanding. "That you find this place as confusing and unsettling as I do. You miss our friends on the island, especially the Skipper."

He took a deep breath, nodding. "Boy, you can say that again!"

"And just like me, you really wish you could have called your family."

"Yeah." Gilligan relaxed his arms slightly. "I sure would have liked to have called Mom and Dad. But at least Mom and Dad aren't in any danger!"

"What do you mean?" asked Mary Ann.

"The headhunters. They're still on our island, and we're not there to help the others!"

"But the Professor said—"

"I know what the Professor said." Gilligan heard the edge in his own voice and paused. He took a deep breath. "But it still scares me. This whole thing scares me." He looked around, shivering, at the dark expanse of the vast space around them. "I want to get back to our island. I feel like we're nothing but puppets, Mary Ann. I want to feel real again."

Suddenly a crewman nearby pointed just beyond them. "Hey! Here comes the real star of _Gilligan's Island_!" He laughed, and jerked his thumb towards Gilligan. "We oughta throw this imposter out!"

"Yeah! Here's the real goods!" called another. "How ya doing, kid?"

Stung, Gilligan looked at Mary Ann. "What do they mean? Who are they talking to?"

She scowled at the crewmen. "I have no idea!"

Suddenly a soft, shocking voice made them both whirl.

"Daddy!"

For a moment neither castaway could believe their eyes. The speaker was a dark-haired little boy of about four, in a red rugby shirt and white sailor cap. In every conceivable way, he was a miniature version of Gilligan. The blue eyes stared up from the little face with the clarity of a mirror image.

Mary Ann heard a sharp breath beside her, and when she turned she saw a look of utter astonishment on Gilligan's face. He knelt down, very slowly. For a few moments his mouth kept opening and shutting, but no sound came out.

The child didn't seem to notice. He burst into a smile and charged into Gilligan's arms. "Daddy! There you are!"

At last the name on the wallet photograph came back to the stunned first mate. "Patrick!" Gilligan whispered, holding the child as though he were made of delicate glass.

The boy pulled back. "I got my Gilligan outfit on! See?"

"Yeah!" Gilligan shook his head in dazed disbelief. "You look just like me!"

One of the crewman who had spoken now laughed. "Best stunt-double we ever had! Sure made Alan look like a giant, chasing a pint-sized Gilligan all over that castle!"

Gilligan couldn't take it in. He reached up and carefully adjusted the boy's small sailor cap until the angle matched his own.

The child suddenly noticed Gilligan's companion. "Hi, Mary Ann! Can I come to your house? You make good pie."

Mary Ann gasped with laughter. "Wh-why, thank you, Patrick! Of course you may! Any time your mommy and daddy say so." She knelt down to speak to the boy, her eyes continually darting between him to his older lookalike. It was uncanny. "Are you in the show today too?"

"Nope. Just visiting. I missed Daddy." The child's brows contracted in a frown. "Where were you last night, Daddy? Why didn't you come home?"

Mary Ann realized that Gilligan just couldn't tell the child a lie. "He's sorry, Patrick. We were all so busy last night!"

Patrick turned from her back to Gilligan. "But we were going to finish my spider farm. We were going to name all my spiders!"

"Oh! That sounds swell! I'd love to do that!" Gilligan's huge smile suddenly faded with regret. "But – but I tell you what, Patrick. Your Daddy'll come home as soon as he can, okay?"

"Okay." The boy threw his arms around Gilligan's neck again. "I love you."

This time Gilligan held the boy close. "Take care," he whispered, and Mary Ann heard a longing in the first mate's voice she had never heard before.

The boy broke away. "I gotta go. Mommy's waiting. Bye, Daddy. Bye, Mary Ann!" In a flash of red and white, he turned and scampered away into the throng.

Slowly Mary Ann and Gilligan stood up. Gilligan stared after the child like a man after a lost dream, until he felt Mary Ann's hand on his arm.

"Wow. Penny for your thoughts?"

Gilligan was still smiling sadly. "Oh, Mary Ann. For a minute there, I almost wanted to stay."

Mary Ann looked to the bustling throng where the child had disappeared, and squeezed her friend's hand. "Maybe someday, Gilligan. Someday.

They stood motionless for a few moments until they heard the Professor excitedly calling, "Eureka! I've found it! I've found it!" He came rushing up, his face alight, clutching his slide rule and a sheaf of crumpled papers. "We're saved! We're saved!"

"Professor, what is it?" gasped Mary Ann.

"Yeah! What have you found?"

"A way to get back!" The Professor finally noticed that crewmen were looking at them, and lowered his voice to an excited whisper. "Gilligan's mishap inspired me! I realized that the lightning bolt over our lagoon must have coincided with the explosion of the spotlight here at the set. I've been calculating the effect of the photostatic energy, plus the hydrostatic energy of the lagoon, on the synergy of the Mayan amulets—"

"Please, Professor?" pleaded Gilligan.

"Oh – forgive me. In any case, we can get back, as long as we observe two factors: one, that we need to recreate the incident at the lagoon. Gilligan, you need to be in the water again with the amulet when a great flash of light appears."

"Can we do that?" asked Mary Ann.

"Why, certainly! We all have a shoot at sunset, redoing the original scene at the lagoon. I can simply short out the wires in one of the spotlights so that it will blow a second time!"

"That's great, Professor! Then we're all set!"

For the first time the Professor paused in his exuberance. "Well, not quite, Gilligan. There is the second factor."

The two young castaways looked at each other. "The second factor?"

"Yes. We have no margin for error. We must get back to our world tonight. The congruent interface that allows our two worlds to meet will not occur again for another century."

Mary Ann's brown eyes flew wide. "Oh, my gosh! You mean—"

The Professor nodded solemnly. "That if we fail tonight, we'll be trapped here for the rest of our lives."

Gilligan gasped as if punched. "Then…we'll never see the others…I'll never see the Skipper again!" He threw a look of horror in the direction Patrick had disappeared. "That little boy will never see his dad again!"

"Little boy?" the Professor asked.

"Bob's son," explained Mary Ann. "We just met him."

Gilligan grabbed the Professor by the arm. "Professor, we can't let any of that happen! We've got to get back!"

The Professor reached up and removed Gilligan's hand firmly but gently as he saw other crew members now staring at them. "Now, now, Gilligan, calm down. We will get back. There's nothing to stand in our way. All we have to do is show up at our shoot as expected. We can even go early. By tonight we'll be back on our own island, sleeping in our own huts." He sighed. "But I will miss that soft bed."

"Heh, heh. Russell, you look like a general discussing battle plans with his chiefs-of-staff," said Jim as he strolled up with Natalie on his arm and a cup of coffee in his other hand.

Alan brought up the rear. "Well, we're heading home. We're all off until tomorrow: that is, except for you three. Have fun at the lagoon tonight!"

"We will," said the Professor. "We wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Then at least poor Godwins won't be heading for the funny farm yet, though I daresay our dear director isn't likely to sign on with us again for next season," chuckled Jim. "Though given a look at next year's scripts, I wouldn't blame him!"

"You've seen next year's scripts?" asked Mary Ann eagerly. "What happens to us?"

"What doesn't? Oh, they're just Sherwood's outlines, for the moment, not fully written. But the ideas! A veritable mob of new visitors to the island! Great Caesar's ghost!"

"What? Is he going to show up?" gasped Gilligan.

"Very funny, Bobby, my boy. No, but I'd hardly put anything past Sherwood now. He's got a pirate showing up, a comedian, an alien, you shrinking to six inches tall…"

Gilligan looked faint. "Are you kidding me?"

"I wish I were, my boy. We're getting wackier than ever."

"And not only are people showing up – one of us is leaving," said Natalie quietly.

Her words fell like a silent explosion. The three castaways stood a moment, unable to believe their ears. Finally Gilligan stammered, "Leaving? Who? How?"

"You must have sensed it coming, Bobby," said Alan. "She's been really unhappy lately. That's why we've hardly seen her."

"She? But—" the Professor's eyebrows shot up in a mini-epiphany. "Ginger!"

"Hey, yeah!" said Gilligan. "She's the only one we haven't met yet—met yet today, I mean," he added hastily.

"That's why," said Jim. "There's been trouble behind the scenes. Apparently she and Sherwood had a talk this morning, and it's official."

"What is?" asked Mary Ann.

Jim sighed. "She's leaving, my dear. The beginning of next season. Sherwood is writing the character out of the series."

Now all three castaways looked ready to faint. The earth seemed to rock underneath them. "Writing Ginger out? But…but how? He can't do that!" cried Gilligan.

"He'll have to, I'm afraid," said Jim. "She's absolutely adamant."

"But can't somebody talk to her?" the Professor insisted, almost panicky with horror. "She can't just leave! Doesn't she realize what she's doing?"

Alan shrugged his massive shoulders. "I did talk to her, Russ. So did Jim here. She's trying to salvage her career as a serious actress, I guess. It means a lot to her."

"And considering the way those studio mountebanks tricked her, it's hard to blame her," said Jim. "I mean, getting her to leave her smash Broadway play by telling her the star of this show was a stranded movie star! By the time she'd signed her contract, it was too late!"

"I gotta admit, I'd be mighty sore too." said Alan.

"And apparently they've sent out a casting call for new girls already," said Natalie. "It's as I said, Dawn, dear. You don't kill the cash cow. The show must go on. Well…" she glanced down at her ornate watch. "Come along, Jim. I feel the need for pedicure. This day has not been easy on my nerves. Good night, all."

"Yes, indeed. Parting is such sweet sorrow, and all that! Ta-ta, everyone." And arm-in-arm with Natalie, Mr. Howell's twin strolled away.

Gilligan turned to Alan. "You can't let this happen. We can't let this happen!"

Alan sighed. "It's out of our hands, Bobby. What will be will be. And after all, it's just a tv show. It's not like it's the end of the world." At the stricken look on Gilligan's face he softened and gave him a gentle punch in the shoulder. "But listen – don't you think about leaving, okay? The Skipper wouldn't be much use without his little buddy!"

Gilligan swallowed. "Thanks. Thanks, Alan. Here." He thrust out his hand impulsively, and Alan shook it with a bemused smile. "They sure picked the right guy to play the Skipper when they chose you, Alan," he murmured. "You're one of the good ones."

"Heh, heh. Thanks, little buddy." He waved to them all. "Well, see you tomorrow!"

As he disappeared into the throng, the two young castaways rounded on their friend in pure panic. "_Professor!_"

The Professor saw the crew members staring at them again. "Come on. We can't talk here. Let's go to my dressing room. Hurry!"


	10. Chapter 10

Though it only took them a few minutes, it seemed like an eternity until they were safe inside Russell's dressing room. Mary Ann could barely wait until the Professor had closed the door behind them. "Write Ginger out of the series?" she cried. "How in the world can Sherwood do that? It's not as if Ginger can just get married or get a new job and move away! We're stranded on an island in the middle of the Pacific!"

"Yeah!" said Gilligan. "And even if Ginger got rescued somehow, she wouldn't be like all those other people that just left us behind. She'd send help!"

"Which means we'd all be rescued, and that would end the series," said the Professor, folding his arms as if to ward off a sudden chill. "No, you're both right. Neither scenario makes sense within the context of this series. There is only one way Sherwood can explain why Ginger is no longer with us, and why we haven't been rescued. He'll have to kill the character off – and that means that back in our world…"

He left the sentence unfinished. For a moment the three castaways simply stared at one another in horror.

Then Gilligan burst out. "No! _No!_ He can't do it! I won't let him! I'm gonna go to Sherwood's office right now and tear that script into little pieces!"

He made a dash for the door, but the Professor caught him and slung him around with such force that the sailor skidded on the floor and nearly fell. "Gilligan, stop it! That won't do any good! He probably hasn't even written it yet!"

"And even if he has, and you destroy it, all he has to do is write another one!" cried Mary Ann. "Oh, Gilligan, the Professor's right! We've got to find some other way!"

"How?" Gilligan demanded. "We're leaving in a few hours, remember?"

"Good heavens, that's right!" The Professor dragged a distracted hand through his hair. "If we don't bring about a change in Ginger's fate by tonight, we'll have lost our chance to save her – and if we stay, we'll lose our chance to return to our own world."

"Then what can we do, Professor?" said Mary Ann. "Our costars tried talking to this actress, but it didn't do any good."

"What if we tried talking to her?" said Gilligan.

"And what would we tell her?" The Professor shook his head wearily. "That Ginger is real? That we're all real? I fear she'd only run away all the faster."

"But we've _gotta_ do something!"

"Gilligan," the Professor said quietly.

But Gilligan rode right overtop of him. "This just keeps getting worse and worse! We can't talk to our families and our friends, the island is a fake, and now Ginger's gonna die? And we just play along?" Blinking rapidly, Gilligan swallowed and struggled to keep speaking. "She...she cut off her own hair to make me a wig when I went bald! She sang for me when I got hurt! She fed me when I couldn't use my hands to feed myself! Now it's my turn to do something for her!"

Mary Ann nodded, brushing away tears that threatened to spill over. "You're right, Gilligan. I hate feeling so helpless! I remember when Ginger tried her best to help me get over Horace Higginbotham. She gave me singing and dancing lessons so I wouldn't feel so shy on our talent nights. And when I hit my head and thought I was her, she let me chop all of her beautiful gowns in half!"

The Professor sighed deeply. "It's astonishing, isn't it, how we take those we love for granted? I'd forgotten how many times Ginger's assisted me in my laboratory. She puts on her shows and entertains us, to keep us from falling into boredom or despair. She even performed a dance to try to snap me out of a cataleptic trance."

Gilligan stared at him. "You were a _zombie_, Professor."

"Nonsense, Gilligan, " the Professor muttered absently. "Native superstition. Merely a temporary state of catalepsy caused by my inadvertent consumption of some triginala berries." (Gilligan looked at Mary Ann and silently mouthed "_zombie"_ when the Professor wasn't looking.) "In any case, we must concentrate on the present, not the past. We must attack this problem from another angle!"

Gilligan nodded, frowning. "How about money?"

"What do you mean?" asked the Professor.

"Well, when Mr. Howell wants something, he always offers people a lot of money. What about the big guys – all those executive types that run this show? Couldn't they do something?"

Mary Ann sighed. "Not according to Natalie. Mr. Howell cares about people, but these fellows don't. They want to make money, not pay more out. They won't care that there's no Ginger, as long as the show goes on."

The Professor sat up. "Wait a minute! Mary Ann, that's it!"

Mary Ann blinked. "What do you mean? What did I say?"

"If the show _didn't_ go on! If suddenly these people lost their hold on our world." He snapped his fingers. "Don't you see? If there weren't any more scripts at all, because _Gilligan's Island_ was cancelled!

Gilligan and Mary Ann gulped. "Golly, Professor, I'd do anything for Ginger, but – what happens to us?" gasped Mary Ann. "I mean, doesn't that mean that the island would be gone, and all of us with it? We'd all just vanish?"

Gilligan looked like he'd just spotted the Kupa Kai and the Marubi laying out their picnic blankets. "Uh...c-can't you think of something else, Professor?"

"Now hang on a minute, you two. I don't think we would vanish." Roy Hinkley looked very thoughtful. "I was doing some surreptitious investigating today before our shoot. I was speaking to some of the crew about incidents from the episodes. They certainly knew many things that had happened on the island, but some things I mentioned: left them completely baffled. And yet those things still happened to us!"

"Hey!" Gilligan suddenly stabbed the air with an excited finger. "That's right! The same thing happened with me and Alan! I kept saying, 'remember when we did this and that,' and some things he knew, but some things he didn't. He said one of us must be losing our minds!"

"That settles it! And of course, our lives up until the shipwreck were never filmed here, but we know they happened in our world. So it seems that while everything that Sherwood writes happens to us, not everything that happens to us is something Sherwood writes."

"Yeah!" exclaimed Gilligan. "I think," he added after a moment.

"But how can that be, Professor?"

The Professor shrugged. "I've no idea, Mary Ann. But we existed before Sherwood Schlitz began to influence our lives, and we'll go on existing afterwards. I'm convinced of it." He motioned them to the sofa that lined one wall. "All right now. Let's examine this problem logically. Why do television programs get cancelled?"

"Because nobody watches them," said Gilligan.

"Yes…" The Professor scowled in exasperation. "But that won't help with our program, because apparently everyone and his brother watches it!"

"Then I wish we were on _Gunsmog_," said Gilligan glumly.

The Professor started. "Why?"

"Because it can't be as popular as we are. When Alan and I were shooting this morning we heard some crewmen talking. They said _Gunsmog_ isn't on the schedule for next year. It's going to be cancelled."

"What?" Mary Ann gasped, astonished. "But _Gunsmog_'s been on forever!"

"They said everybody's bored with Westerns now. Too many on tv."

"But Mr. Bailey actually agreed to its being cancelled?"

"Who's Mr. Bailey?" asked the Professor, confused.

"The network president. Natalie and I met his wife this morning."

"Those guys we heard mentioned him. He's away in Europe," said Gilligan. "So they slipped it in hoping he won't notice until it's too late."

"Poor Mrs. Bailey," said Mary Ann.

"Why 'poor Mrs. Bailey?'" said the Professor, now thoroughly confused.

"Well, she thinks _Gilligan's Island_ is the worst thing on television, but she loves _Gunsmog_. She's hosting a cocktail party this afternoon, and James Harness is the guest of honour! Won't she have egg on her face when she finds out what's happened!"

"Yeah," said Gilligan. "Alan says the only way to make a space on the schedule for _Gunsmog_ is to cancel some other show."

The light hit all three castaways at the same time.

"That's it!"

"Mrs. Bailey!"

"Cancel us and save _Gunsmog_!"

Mary Ann looked at her two friends. "But she doesn't know! Somebody's got to put the idea into her head today!"

"And it can't be anybody from the show," said Gilligan. "We don't want to get the actors into trouble. I feel bad enough, making them lose their jobs. Who's gonna tell her?"

The Professor suddenly grinned and clapped Gilligan on the back. "Gilligan, you're going to a party."

"What? When? I haven't been—" Gilligan stopped as he saw the wicked gleam in the Professor's eye. "Hey, wait a minute. Oh, no. Why me?"

"Because you're a genius," said Mary Ann, grinning hugely.

"Best in the biz," said the Professor.

Gilligan was gawping like a landed fish. "Oh, come on! Cut it out! They didn't mean me! They meant Bob!"

"But you are brilliant at play-acting, Gilligan!" Mary Ann insisted. She dropped her voice an octave, glowering. "_'I am the great Watubi! You will walk now, or I will make the earth tremble again!'_ And it did!"

Gilligan stared at her. "That was pure dumb luck!"

The Professor leapt in. "But your acting is impeccable! When we put on Ginger's _Cleopatra_ play, you played four roles better than the Skipper played just one!"

"Don't tell him that!" Gilligan yelped.

"Remember when the Howells adopted you and you didn't want to act the part of the pampered son anymore? Your snooty Harvard brat at their party was an academy award performance!"

"Mary Ann, I got pie all over Ginger's hair!"

Now the Professor rode overtop of Gilligan. "You were a splendidly melancholy Hamlet. You had to remember all kinds of lines and sing them to grand opera!"

"I _can't_ sing. And I couldn't remember Pulu Si Bagoomba!"

"Oh, a momentary aberration! Your French radio announcer was a remarkable performance! Squashed underneath my false transmitter, and with no preparation for your role whatsoever!"

"But I went and—"

"And you were a very romantic Charles Boyer!"

"But I—"

"And what a splendid Tarzan!"

"But—but—but--" For a moment Gilligan could only splutter the one syllable. "She'll recognize me! I'm famous! We all are! People knew us in the restaurant! In the library! How's Mrs. Bailey not gonna know me?"

Mary Ann reached up and gently smoothed his bangs to one side. "Just leave that to me. I was watching the make-up men all morning. I picked up quite a few tips, and I'm sure they'll let me borrow one of their kits. And we can pick up some sort of outfit from wardrobe. I can even alter it to fit you better!"

The Professor smiled. "After all, Gilligan, this is Hollywood! It's the perfect place to concoct a disguise! For you, and you alone, this will be a masquerade party!" When Gilligan didn't answer, Roy Hinkley looked him right in the eyes. "What happened to, 'Now it's my turn to do something for her?'"

Gilligan started and looked down, ashamed. Then he sat up straight. "You're right, Professor. I'll do it."

The Professor clapped him on the arm. "Good man."

"We're going to have to cut it pretty close, Professor," said Mary Ann. "How are we going to get from here to Mrs. Bailey's place and then back to the lagoon set in time for the shoot?"

"We'll take my convertible…uh, Russell's convertible, I mean, and drive straight to the set once Gilligan's finished with Mrs. Bailey. You and I will change into our island clothes now, and we'll bring Gilligan's along so that he can change once we get there. And let's leave our wallets here for our counterparts to find. After all, we've spent enough of their money as it is." He stood up. "Now, I'll look up Mrs. Bailey's residence while the two of you head to make-up. I'll meet you back here in an hour."

The two young castaways saluted. "Aye-aye, Professor!"

He smiled. "Operation Cancellation is underway!"


	11. Chapter 11

Crystal glasses clinked, a baby grand piano tinkled and laughter and light conversation rippled in Mrs. Richard Bailey's gorgeous penthouse apartment. Waiters floated amid gowned and tuxedo-ed guests, bearing gleaming trays of hors d'oevres and champagne. From the wrap-around terrace, with its stunning views of the LA skyline, to the sumptuous sunken living room, the crème de la crème of Hollywood society hob-nobbed with movie and television stars, musicians and sports heroes. Mrs. Bailey herself was holding court by the potted palms, batting her false eyelashes up at the stiff figure of James Harness, while an admiring crowd looked on.

"Tell me, Mr. Harness…ahem. May I call you Jim?"

"Uh…James'll do fine, ma'am."

The wound-red lips curved in a smile. "James, of course. Do you know, I believe the phenomenal success of _Gunsmog_ is due entirely to your tremendous talent."

The chorus of onlookers oohed and nodded while Harness blushed almost to the colour of his hostess's lipstick. "Oh, I wouldn't say that, ma'am. All our folks are talented. And our show is all about good values, you know, the values that made America great." He brightened. "Kinda like that little show that shoots next to us, you know? That little comedy about the tropical island—"

Mrs. Bailey rolled her eyes and tsked. "Oh, you're far too modest, James. And it's quite ridiculous, your comparing _Gunsmog _to that inane little excuse for a comedy. I mean, honestly, how could anyone be as stupid as that Finnegan, or whatever his name is? I can't imagine how adults watch it."

Harness winced and glanced about to see who might have overheard. "Don't you think that's a bit harsh, ma'am?"

"Hah!" The laugh was like the bark of a hyena. Then she softened and smiled again. "But we digress. As I was saying, James, dear—"

Suddenly the head waiter tapped Mrs. Bailey on the shoulder. "Senora Bailey?"

She didn't even look back. "What is it, Esteban? Can't you see I'm busy?"

"There's a man here to see you, Senora. Urgent business, he says."

"Well, what's his name?"

"He would not give his name, Senora."

"What?" She turned around, frowning. "What in the world? How did he get in here? This is a private party, by invitation only!"

"Perdoneme, Senora, but he was very persistent. He said he is from the studio and he will lose his job if anyone knows he speaks to you. He says the studio is trying to…how did he say…pull a quick one on you."

Mrs. Bailey looked searchingly at him for a moment, then set her unfinished martini on the tray of a passing waiter. "Where is he, Esteban?"

"On the terrace, senora. He is wearing a black beret."

"I see." She turned back to Harness with a Cheshire cat smile. "James, darling, I'm so sorry. Won't you try some of these canapés? I won't be a minute." She turned and strode past Esteban to the wide-open glass doors of the terrace, where the sun glowed mellow in the late afternoon light.

Amid the little knots of elegant party-goers stood two men looking anxiously over the wide parapet. On it sat two potted plants with a curiously empty space between them.

"Good thing there wasn't anybody down there," said the older man. "But I don't think the owner of that car is going to be too pleased with you."

At that moment Mrs. Bailey approached, her eyes on the beret the younger man wore. "Excuse me. I was told you wanted to speak to me alone, young man." She looked up at the older and smiled. "Sid, darling, do you mind going in and keeping James occupied? Don't let him leave before I get my photo taken with him."

Sid nodded and moved off towards the French doors. Now that she was alone with her mystery guest, Mrs. Bailey took a good look at him. He was _quite_ young, whoever he was – not much over twenty, and his slight frame made him look even more boyish. But that was not the impression he obviously wanted to give: his tuxedo fit as though it had been made for him, his black beret was perched at a jaunty angle on his short black hair and his eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses. His dark goatee, coupled with his beret, almost made him look French. But that impression was dispelled the moment he opened his mouth.

"Hi, lady." He smiled...rather nervously, she thought.

Mrs. Bailey raised a penciled eyebrow. "My name is Mrs. Richard Bailey. And who might you be?"

"Uh - I'd rather not say, dig? I'll be a rebel without a cause if one of those studio fat cats knows I'm here."

Her eyebrows now bent like a crossbow. "I'm not in the habit of playing games, young man. Perhaps some of my people had better show you the door."

Before she could fully turn away the young man whispered urgently, "I'm trying to help you, lady. Like you want _Gunsmog_ to be nowhere next fall?"

Mrs. Bailey froze in mid-step. Turning back, she eyed the young man with horror. "What did you say?" she gasped.

He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Isn't it a gasser? Those squares down at CBS have made themselves a schedule for next fall – and _Gunsmog_'s splitsville! It's like the last roundup!"

For a few moments Mrs. Bailey stood gaping. Finally she gripped the young man by the sleeve. "I don't believe it," she whispered. "They wouldn't dare! Cancel _Gunsmog_? It's been running for over twenty years!"

"Read it and weep, lady." The young man fished a crumpled paper from his pocket. Mrs. Bailey unfolded it and stared at the typed heading: CBS Schedule: Fall 1967.

"How did you get hold of this?"

"Some cat dropped it out at 4024 Radford. I heard about how you like dug this cowboy jazz and thought I better make you hep to what was going down. It's not cool to mess with the boss's missus."

Mrs. Bailey's eyes scanned the paper hungrily, growing ever more desperate as she came to the end.

The young man shrugged. "See? _Gunsmog_'s like lost in space. No room."

"It can't be. It can't be!" The paper crumpled under the bejeweled fingers. "My husband's the president of the network! He would never allow it!"

"I guess those squares slipped it in when he blew town. When the cat's away, you dig?"

"But something must be done!

The young man tugged thoughtfully at his goatee, then gasped and felt his beard carefully, as if to make certain it was still there. "Uh, hey, don't get your pearls in a twist, lady. I got a brainstorm. Just lay your baby blues on that schedule again."

After she had unfolded the paper with trembling fingers, he pointed to an empty timeslot in one of the evenings. "See this spot? It's like a big black hole, daddy-o. _Gunsmog _could hang out right there."

"But it's only a half an hour! _Gunsmog_ is an hour long! We need another thirty minutes!"

"We got it." His finger moved to the half-hour program just before the blank space, and Mrs. Bailey's eyes blazed.

"That rubbish? That ridiculous little comedy has been renewed for a fourth season, and there's no room for my _Gunsmog_? We'll soon see about that!"

The young man was smiling again. "Just deep six the seven castaways, and it's in the bag. You think you can swing your old man?"

"Can I? Just watch me."

"Groovy. But you know, it won't be easy. The ratings on that little show are outta sight. A lotta people dig that crazy island."

"Then a lot of people are fools. What kind of premise was that in the first place? Why strand seven people on an island? What's the point in that?"

"Search me. That this group might somehow form a family?" the young man murmured, in a gentler, more innocent tone.

"What?" Mrs. Bailey looked at him strangely.

The young man gasped and shook himself. "Oh, nothing, lady! But you better be sure. Phone your old man. Give him the scoop."

"I'll do it right now!" She looked towards the French doors, lifting a hand to her mouth. "Oh, but I wouldn't want dear James to hear any of this! How he'd worry! I'll use the phone in the master bedroom." Again she turned to go, but looked back once more at the young man who stood silhouetted against the golden sky. "You're a very bright young man. If you tell me your name you'll go far in this business; I'll see to that."

"Oh, I've got far to go, all right," said the young man with a sigh, and he leaned backwards against the parapet, as if in relief. "But don't worry, lady. You've been the most. Stay cool.

"Yes, uh, thank you. Well, enjoy the party." She hurried off amid a storm of flowing silk, and the young man sighed again as the guests parted for her like the sea before Moses. He leaned back a little too far, and the potted plant behind him swayed and toppled over the edge. He whirled and looked down, grimacing.

"Oh, no, not again! Gosh, if I ever get invited to one of the Howells' houses, I better stay off the balcony!"

A voice boomed at his shoulder. "_Bob!_ Bob, that is you, isn't it?

Gilligan's heart shot into his mouth and he nearly went over the edge. But as he whirled he saw that Mrs. Bailey was nowhere within earshot, and the tall, dark Hercules holding a Tom Collins reached out to catch him gently by the arm.

"Hey, careful there, Bob. It's one thing to fall into the lagoon, but falling off the penthouse is a whole different ball game!"

Gilligan gasped up at the giant. He didn't know the face, but he knew the voice. "Wh-Roman? You look so different!"

"What, you thought I went around dressed as a South Seas headhunter all the time?" The football hero laughed, then pulled ruefully at the collar of his white dress shirt. "Though I gotta say I bet my best friends wouldn't know me in this monkey suit. But what's up with the beard and glasses? You look like Jack Kerouac!"

"Uh – " Gilligan scrambled for an explanation. "Well, you see, I didn't get an invitation. I crashed the party, so I hadda come in disguise." He lowered his voice. "Hey, do me a favour and keep your voice down, will you? And don't call me Bob – or Gilligan!"

"Whatever you say, little buddy. But I better tell the guys that met you this morning. The whole team's here dressed up like an undertaker's convention!"

Gilligan paused as a thought struck him. "Hey - don't you have a game tonight?"

"No, tomorrow. We're gonna go to practice right after the party, though. Our tourbus is parked just down the road. We didn't want to come tonight, see, but our manager thought we should put in an appearance. Good for PR."

The first mate blinked. "You've got a French member?"

Roman chuckled. "You're too much. No, not Pierre. Public Relations. Like you guys, signing autographs. It was great that you could make the time. Don't forget: if there's anything I can ever do for you, you just let me know. Anytime. I mean it."

"Gee, thanks, Roman." Gilligan's great blue eyes widened behind his sunglasses. "Time! Oh my gosh! Look at the sun! I've gotta get going!" He started for the doors. "Bye, Roman! It was nice seeing you!"

"Nice seeing you too!" called Roman, as he watched the black beret disappear into the crowd.

In a nearby coffee shop the Professor checked his watch again. "Oh, good heavens, where is he? We haven't got much time! I--" he turned suddenly as he heard footsteps approaching. "At last! We've been waiting for—oh, oh, hello there."

A pair of tourists in brightly coloured shirts and slacks hovered over their table. "You see, Fred?" said the wife. "I told you it was them! The Professor and Mary Ann!"

"What a piece of luck to find you together!" said the husband. "Would you mind signing our guidebook for us? It'd make such a great souvenir when we go back up north."

Mary Ann sighed, but smiled. "Not at all." She took the book and flipped to the opening page. "Where are you folks from, anyway?"

"Toronto," said the wife. "We never miss your show."

"You see it in Canada?" asked the Professor.

"Of course," said the husband. "You're huge. I bet forty years from now our grandchildren will be watching you."

In spite of his worry, the Professor laughed. "I highly doubt that. What if we're cancelled next season?"

"Then we'll watch you in reruns." The couple looked fondly at their signed book. "Say hi to Gilligan and the gang for us! Take care!"

As they left, the Professor shook his head. "Mary Ann, we had better get back home before I lose any shred of sanity I have left!"

The girl looked up at the skinny figure that came bursting in the door. "There he is, Professor! Over here!"

Gilligan raced up, out of breath. "I did it, Professor," he gasped. "I showed Mrs. Bailey the schedule. She nearly blew her top!"

"Then we're going to be cancelled?" Mary Ann's crossed fingers were shaking.

"We will if she's got anything to do with it!"

"Oh, Gilligan, you're wonderful!" She leaped up and hugged the ersatz beatnik. "I knew you could do it!"

The Professor rose, throwing some bills down on the table. "And now we've no time to lose. Let's get to the car and get to the studio as quickly as we can!"

"It's this way! Down this sidestreet!" called the Professor, as they dashed around a corner and saw the red convertible parked by the curb. But as they pelted up, the Professor suddenly gave a cry of dismay. "Oh, no! Look what's happened to it!"

The windscreen and dashboard controls were completely smashed, the cream-coloured leather upholstery buried under mounds of black dirt. Huge potsherds lay scattered about the seats and floor.

The Professor looked up at the skyscraper beside them. "Those plants must have fallen from the roof! The exponential speed of their downward acceleration turned them into deadly projectiles!"

"Oh, my gosh! It was your car all along! I knocked them down, Professor!" Gilligan yanked off his sunglasses and stared upwards in despair. "What are we gonna do?"

"Can't we just get a cab?" said Mary Ann.

Roy Hinkley raised his arms helplessly. "We've no cash, remember? I only kept a little to pay for the coffee. We left the actors' wallets in our dressing rooms! We haven't even enough for bus fare!"

"Bus…hang on a minute!" Gilligan's blue eyes glowed with inspiration. "I've got an idea! I'll be right back! Meet me at the front of Mrs. Bailey's building!"

"Gilligan, where are you going?" cried Mary Ann.

"To thumb a lift with a headhunter," he called as he vanished around the corner.


	12. Chapter 12

The Professor checked his watch for the tenth time in two minutes. "Please, driver, can't you go any faster? We can't afford to miss this shoot!"

The driver shot a quick look back at the Professor from his seat behind the wheel. "These guys can run mighty fast, Mr. Tomson, but even they can't hurry the traffic."

As the Los Angeles Rams tourbus rolled along the last stretch of Sunset Boulevard before the freeway, the Professor bit his lip and dug his nails into his palm. "I can't understand it!" he muttered. "This trip is only twelve point five eight miles. I calculated it would take us only twenty-six minutes!"

"Did you factor in rush hour, Mr. Einstein?" drawled defenseman Decon Smith, smiling slightly.

"Good Heavens!" The Professor smacked his forehead in dismay. "I completely forgot!"

Decon shook his head. "Man, you must really be living on a deserted island! When rush hour hits, it can take two hours to cross L.A!"

"Two hours! Oh, no!"

"What's the matter, Professor?" called Gilligan from the back of the bus.

"Rush hour, Bob," said Roman, leaning on the seat across from him. He reached over to open the window, and his biceps rippled under the black sleeves of his tuxedo. "Wish we'd left the party earlier. I was afraid we'd get stuck in something like this."

Gilligan's tuxedo jacket and black tie lay flung over a seat back. He eyed the view outside, where cars rumbled in a close-packed mass to the left and the right of them. On the many-towered horizon, the red-gold disc of the sun hung ominously low. "No chance again for a hundred years," he whispered, then turned back to Mary Ann. "Come on, Mary Ann. I gotta get this stuff off me or they're gonna hafta say Gilligan grew a beard!"

"Well, you'd better hold still then. I need to put more solvent on that spirit gum."

Mary Ann reached up with her make-up brush, painting the glistening mixture onto Gilligan's fake beard.

"There. That's gotta be enough!" Gilligan yanked at a tuft. "Ow!"

Mary Ann rolled her eyes. "I haven't gotten to that spot yet!"

He winced, massaging his chin. "Yeah, I noticed."

Roman's head tilted to one side and his eyes narrowed. "You two always call each other by your character names?"

"Whoops! Did it again," Gilligan whispered.

"Uh, y-yes, Roman. Helps us rehearse!" blurted Mary Ann in a flash of inspiration. She daubed on more solvent and sat back. "There. Try it now."

Gilligan reached up, then paused. "Are you sure?"

"Gilligan, don't you trust me?"

"I trust you with my life, Mary Ann, but I'd trust you better if it were your beard I was pulling off!" Gilligan blinked at what he'd said. "Oh, sorry, Mary Ann. I mean, you don't have a…well, you know what I mean!"

Roman guffawed. "Come on, Mr. Master of Disguise. Here we go!" And before Gilligan could even move, the giant reached over and neatly peeled his beard away. It came off like a soggy bandaid.

Gilligan fingered his chin in wonder. "Hey! It's gone!"

Mary Ann sighed. "Gilligan, I use hot wax to get nice smooth legs. Trust me – I've had a lot of experience with this!"

Gilligan and Roman both glanced at her shapely legs and grimaced. "That's taking the Method a bit too far, I'd say," said Roman.

"Sure glad us guys have a razor," said Gilligan. "Here: gimme some of that cream." Vigorously he swirled a bit around his jaw and rubbed it off with a towel. "There! Good as new!"

"Wait a minute!" cried Mary Ann. "I've got to put your stage make-up on now!"

But Gilligan had leapt to his feet, out of her reach. "There's no time, Mary Ann! I gotta get changed!" And with that he reefed his still-buttoned white shirt over his head with such force that the buttons flew. His undershirt came away too, and he stood panting in the aisleway, stripped to the waist.

For a few seconds Mary Ann and Roman simply goggled. Then, trying to keep a straight face, Roman jerked his thumb towards the rear of the bus. "Uh…we do have a washroom, Bob, unless you want to give us the half-time show right now!"

"Huh? But I don't need to--!" Suddenly, like Adam, Gilligan realized he was naked. He clutched his shirt to his skinny chest with a gasp of horror. "Oh my gosh! Mary Ann!"

"This episode is _not_ going to make it past the censors!" Mary Ann put her hand over her mouth, desperately trying to hide her giggles.

Roman bundled Gilligan's costume into a ball and raised his arm. "Here comes the pass, Charles Atlas! Don't fumble it!"

Gilligan didn't, and the moment he had caught the flying clothes he dashed into the washroom. Roman bent over, clutching his stomach with laughter. "Oh, did you see that, Dawn? We could use him on the team!"

"Catching?" said Mary Ann, confused.

"Running," roared the quarterback.

Mary Ann laughed too, but her laughter faded as she felt the bus slowing even further. They were crawling along the 101 as more and more vehicles hemmed them in on either side. The fumes from the combined exhaust set them coughing. "Gosh, we're going awfully slowly! How much further, Roman?"

"I'm not sure." He leaned forward. "Hey, fellas. Anybody know how much further it is to the Ventura Boulevard turnoff?"

Mary Ann chewed her lip as the bus full of evening-suited Rams argued over the distance. A banging sound from the washroom made her turn 'round. "Gilligan? Are you all right in there?"

"Yeah!" came the muffled reply. "It's a good thing the Skipper doesn't have to change in here!"

"Why?"

"He'd never fit!"

At the front of the bus, the Professor was pouring over a map. "Perhaps we could try a different route," he muttered.

The driver raised his eyebrow. "The 101/Ventura goes direct through the San Fernando Valley."

"Yes, yes, I know, but perhaps the local streets are less congested. We have simply got to make better time!"

Decon Smith tisked and folded his arms. "No practice for us tonight. The parkway's nothing but a parking lot!"

When the Professor saw the scene outside, he almost forgot to breathe. "Great heavens! It's jammed solid!"

A flat wall of cars, trucks and buses were bumper-to-bumper as far as the eye could see. Horns blared, engines revved and hot fumes rose, shimmering, from a thousand exhaust pipes. The Professor craned his neck to look in the rear view mirrors. The view was just as bad behind. "We're trapped!"

At that moment Gilligan came bursting out of the washroom. "Hey! What have we stopped for?" As he fumbled with his shirt buttons he tripped over Roman's outstretched leg and fell across Mary Ann's lap.

Roman hauled him to his feet. "Hey. Get back behind the fifty yard line there, Bob. The censors wouldn't go for that either."

Gilligan clutched the back of the seat for support. "Oh, thanks, Roman. Sorry, Mary Ann." Now he saw the scene outside. "Oh, no! Look at it out there!"

"Sorry, Bob," said Roman sadly. "We did our best. I guess you'll have to air a rerun next week."

"But we've just got to get there!" cried Gilligan. "It's our last chance! We'll never make it back to the island! We'll never see our friends again! I'll never see the Skipper again!"

Mary Ann jumped up and clutched his arm. "Gilligan, it'll be all right! The Professor will think of something, I'm sure!"

But the Professor was at the front, staring blankly at the road. "We were so close!" he murmured. "How could I have miscalculated like this?"

Gilligan and Mary Ann raced up. "Come on, Professor!" cried Gilligan. "We can do it! We'll make it on foot if we have to!"

The Professor looked up wearily. "But you don't realize how far it is. You don't even know where you're going!"

"I know we're not going anywhere sitting here!" In his fervour Gilligan let go of Mary Ann's hand. "Remember what you said to us in the diner?"

"Gilligan, I--"

"We can accomplish anything we set our minds to, if we don't get uncoordinated and lose our morals!"

The Professor's eyebrows took a leap into his hair. "Gilligan, I'm sure I didn't say that!"

"He nearly _did_ that back there a minute ago," said Decon.

"Well, whatever you said, Professor, you were right! We just can't give up now!" Gilligan turned and waved to the big quarterback. "Hey, thanks for the ride, Roman! We'll take it from here!"

"Bob, what are you—" began Roman, but before he could say another word, Gilligan had vanished.

Mary Ann dashed to the front windshield. "Oh, my gosh! Where's he going?"

"He's running along the shoulder! Gilligan!" The Professor forgot that Gilligan couldn't hear him and the Rams could. "You can't run on the freeway!" He tore out the door after the first mate.

Mary Ann was two steps after him. She hit the asphalt running, thankful her costume didn't call for high heels. "Gilligan! Professor! Wait for me!"

But that red shirt was far in front of the two of them. People sitting slumped in the hot, stationary vehicles looked up in disbelief to see Gilligan sprint past them at top speed, his long legs flying. The Professor came pounding along behind, shouting as he tried to catch his breath. "Gilligan! Stop! It's not safe!"

Mary Ann, with her shorter legs, was soon as far behind the Professor as he was behind Gilligan. "Gilligan!" she cried, her voice drowned out in the ocean of growling engines. "You'll never make it! Come back!"

But the first mate either didn't hear them, or didn't care. He was hotfooting it like it was the last leg of a relay, and he intended to win. The heat that rippled off the pavement and the stinking fumes from the cars didn't slow him down a heartbeat. "Hang on, Skipper! I'm coming back! I promise!"

A half a mile from where they'd jumped off the bus, the Professor halted, panting. "Oh, _gasp!_ This pollution! I'd forgotten _gasp!_ how bad it was!"

Mary Ann skidded to a stop, her black hair falling about her face. "Professor, come on! We've got to catch him!"

The Professor shook his head, coughing. "We'll never _gasp_ catch him! Nobody runs as fast as he does!"

"Wanna bet?" boomed a voice behind them, and suddenly a tall, massive figure in evening dress came charging past. "I'll bring him down for you!"

"Roman!" Shooting a determined look at one another, the two castaways started running again.

No one in a Los Angeles traffic jam had ever seen a show like this. The giant in the tux was gaining fast on the skinny little man in the red rugby shirt. "Hold up, Bob! You don't have to do this!"

Gilligan glanced behind him, but kept running. "I can't stop, Roman! It's too important!"

"Bobby!" With a burst of speed the quarterback flew past Gilligan until he was running slightly ahead of him. "I don't want to tackle you on the asphalt! You've got to stop!"

"I can't!" yelled Gilligan, and galloped ahead. "You don't understand!"

Roman spurted forward and clutched him by the arm. "No, you don't understand! I've called for help!"

"What?" Roman's grip was gently but firmly slowing him down. They pounded a few more steps until they finally stood panting on the freeway shoulder. Beads of sweat glistened on Gilligan's pale face. "Help? From where? Who? How?"

"One question at a time, little buddy!" Roman laughed and pulled his collar loose. "Boy! Now I know why we don't wear these monkey suits on the field!"

"How'd you call for help anyway?"

"We have a phone on the bus."

"Wow – a phone, a washroom – that's some bus! Does it have a colour tv?"

Roman laughed again. "I wish!"

Just then the Professor and Mary Ann came dashing up, hot and breathless. "Great catch, Roman!" gasped Mary Ann, pulling the hair from her eyes.

"Yes! Well done!" wheezed the Professor.

Roman turned to them both. "I was just telling Bob, here, that help is on the way. In fact," he said, looking behind them and shading his eyes, "here comes the cavalry right now!"


	13. Chapter 13

The castaways turned as one as the wail of a siren cut through the rumble of the idling cars. In a moment up rolled a big black and white Kawasaki, manned by a rider in a beige uniform and white helmet. When the rider pulled up to them and stopped, they saw the seven-pointed star painted on the gas tank.

"Of course!" cried the Professor. "Roman, you're brilliant! The CHiPS!"

The officer raised his tinted goggles and stared at Roman. "Good Lord – I don't believe it! You really are Roman Archangel!"

Roman spread his hands and smiled. "What's not to believe?"

"But – but –" the officer had all the propriety shaken out of him. "You're in a tux!"

"Just call me classy."

The officer looked around. "Your call said you had three friends in trouble on the road and –" at the sight of the three castaways in their show costumes, his jaw nearly hit the road. "No. No way! Even for Hollywood!"

Gilligan was reading the star with interest. "Hey, you're right, Professor. It does spell CHIPS…except for the 'i'...and the 's'."

The officer was still pole-axed. "Gilligan? The Professor…and Mary Ann?" He shook his head. "What in the world are you all doing out here?"

"Trying to make it to the island!" Gilligan gestured to the sea of cars. "The Rams here gave us a ride, but we got stuck in this traffic jam!"

Roman took over. "They've got a shoot at the lagoon set at 4024 Radford, and if they don't get it by tonight, no show for next week. It'd put them in a real jam."

"Jam? I'd say it was a national emergency! That's the favourite show of every guy on the force – including the captain!" The officer grabbed his radio mike. "Hang in there, castaways! You're about to be rescued by the California Highway Patrol!"

"Not to mention the Los Angeles Rams," smiled Roman.

Gilligan raised a philosophical eyebrow. "Funny. I always had a feeling it would be the Harlem Globetrotters."

Two truckers sat drumming their fingers on the walls of their cab, looking out at the unmoving rows of steaming vehicles. "Hell of a way to make a living, ain't it, Jack?"

His partner, slumped behind the wheel, rubbed at his stubbled chin. "Yeah, George. Ya ever start wondering what's it all for?"

George shrugged. "I dunno. If it wasn't for a few beers, a few smokes…" he leaned back, sighing. "And that sweet little Mary Ann in her short shorts on Friday nights…"

Jack nodded and glanced in the rear-view mirror. Then he sat up. "Hey, George!"

"What?"

"Don't look now, but here comes that sweet little Mary Ann right now: on a motorcycle!"

George leaned over to look out the window. "Son of a gun! I – I don't believe it!"

Three big Kawasakis came roaring up alongside them, manned by three big patrol officers, and Gilligan, the Professor and Mary Ann from _Gilligan's Island_. They hurtled past the truck as George stuck his head and arm out the window. "Hey! Mary Ann! Lookin' great, babe!"

Mary Ann waved back, her hair streaming behind her in a black cascade.

Now others were looking out of their cars and trucks, climbing out to perch on the windows, waving and shouting at the top of their lungs. For mile after flying mile, the sea of arms grew, until the whole Ventura stretch was one massive, cheering crowd.

And then the singing began.

It sprang up spontaneously as soon as the castaways shot into view, and carried on long after they had barreled past. Sometimes out of sync, sometimes out of tune, and sometimes with lyrics hopelessly wrong, the song still blew away the stink and heat and frustration like the sweet, cool breeze of an island paradise:

_Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale_

_A tale of a fateful trip_

_That started from this tropic port _

_Aboard this tiny ship._

Now the castaways themselves were waving as they soared down the last stretch towards the Ventura Boulevard turnoff. When they passed the overhead exit sign, the three officers deftly manoevred their machines through the idling cars, inching past grills and fenders, until at last they turned off down the leafy lane into relative quiet. A few minutes later, as the Kawasakis revved into the studio at 4024 Radford and finally pulled up at the edge of the lagoon set, the castaways felt as though they were in a dream.

Gilligan hopped off first, putting his sailor cap back on his head. "Gee, thanks, guys! You never know – maybe you'll get your own show someday!"

The Professor looked up at the half-disc of the sun, glowing above the rustling trees. "You're lifesavers, you men. We'll never forget you!"

The third officer felt he was the luckiest of all as he gently lifted Mary Ann from the saddle and was rewarded with a kiss. "Thank you, ma'am," he murmured, blushing. "That Ginger's a peach, but I always was a Mary Ann kind of guy myself."

But there was no more time for goodbyes as the castaways waved one more time and dashed off down the trail to the water. They found a very irate Leslie Godwins standing there, arms folded, his crop about to snap in half.

"What in the world have the three of you been playing at! We thought you were never going to appear at all!" He leaned forward and stared. "Mr. Colorado! Where is your make-up? Miss Bells! What on earth has happened to your hair? You three look as though you've been pulled through a hedge backwards!"

"S-sorry, Mr. Godwins," said Mary Ann as she hastily grabbed the comb and ribbons a stagehand proffered, and tamed her wild locks into a pair of demure pigtails. "We had a bit of a hard time getting here."

"Well, be that as it may, we need to begin. Places, please!"

"Just a minute, Mr. Godwins! Are you sure that light is working?" asked the Professor.

Godwins sighed. "Sam assures me it is, Russell. That's good enough for me."

"It's good enough for me too, but—" and the Professor clambered up behind the big spotlight while the crew stared in astonishment. He had already fiddled with something at the back for a few moments before the flabbergasted Godwins spoke. "Russell! Will you get down from there! Whom do you think you are – the Professor?"

The Professor looked 'round, slamming something shut, and smiled. "Just don't like taking any chances, Mr. Godwins. I think we're all set now." He hurried back over to his friends.

"All right. Places, please. Bob, I'm afraid it's the briny for you again. No mishaps like this afternoon, eh?"

"You can count on me!" called Gilligan.

"Right! Well then—"

"Airplane!" called one of the crew.

The Englishman paused and groaned. "Blast! It never fails! Wait just a moment, Bob!"

"I'm almost sorry we got the show cancelled!" whispered Mary Ann to her friends. "It makes so many people happy!"

"And next season would have changed it beyond recognition. Now we'll always be the shipwrecked seven: with Ginger," said the Professor.

"I can't wait to see her," said Gilligan. "I can't wait to see them all! Professor, I know you tried your best, but you just can't snore like the Skipper!"

Mary Ann sighed. "Are we going back forever, Professor? Now that there's no fourth season, will there be no rescue?"

"Don't you believe it, Mary Ann. As you said, there's a higher power that guides our destinies. And besides--perhaps they'll make a movie about us someday!"

"Yeah!" said Gilligan eagerly. "And maybe a cartoon, and a musical, and a show where real people pretend they're us, and—"

"Places if you please!" called Godwins.

The Professor and Mary Ann shook Gilligan by the hand. "Good luck!"

Feeling the amulet beneath his shirt, Gilligan turned and splashed out into the water. "Eek! It's cold in here!" he yelped, and then dove under.

"Lights, camera, action!" called Godwins.

A fizzing, sparking sound came from the great spotlight. Godwins stared up in dismay. "Oh, good Lord, not again!"

_Boom! Flash!_

As the blinding white light faded, Mary Ann and the Professor blinked to clear their eyes. Slowly the lagoon materialized before them, but now the trees towered, lush and perfumed, and the sky glowed soft lavender as the sun rose in the east.

A red-shirted figure broke the surface of the lagoon. "Professor! Mary Ann! Are we there yet?"

And from behind them, instead of an irate director's "cut!" came a sound like no other in the world – or in any other world, for that matter. It was a great, reverberating, joyful laugh that seemed to fill the very air, until the waving palms and rippling waters were laughing right along. The scientist and the farm girl whirled.

There at the edge of the jungle, with no cameras and no crew behind him, stood the one and only Skipper. "Are you ever there yet! Hah, hah, hah! Ahoy there, you three! How was Los Angeles?"

"_Skipper!_" Mary Ann and the Professor fairly sprang on him in their excitement, and he caught them up in his arms and literally lifted them off their feet for joy. "We did it! We're back! We're back!"

But the Skipper only held them for a few seconds before he set them down and roared into the water 'til foam and fishes flew. "Little buddy! You made it!"

Gilligan pitied the poor college football shmucks who had faced his big buddy in a full-on tackle. It would be easier to stop a charging rhino. "Skipper!" he yelped, half afraid, but a moment later he was laughing as he was scooped right up out of the water and swung 'round. It was dizzying, overwhelming, and ten times more fun than it had been with Alan.

"You made it back, little buddy! You're really here! Hah, hah hah!"

The Professor called to them from the shore. "My experiment with the Mayan amulets is conclusive, Skipper! Their implementation would be both injudicious and imbecilic!"

"What?" called Gilligan.

"It means I think they're a lousy idea!"

The Skipper called back. "You're telling me, Professor! We're melting those amulets down tonight, and that's an order!"

"Aye-aye, Skipper," laughed the Professor and Mary Ann, hugging one another in delight.

The Skipper made one last spin. "You try jumping ship on me again, Gilligan! You just try it once more and I'll keel haul you!" With a mighty fling, he sent Gilligan flying into the water. Moments later he hoisted his sputtering first mate to the surface by the collar and gave him a fond shake that nearly rattled his teeth.

"Don't worry, Skipper," gasped Gilligan, trying to keep his balance. "I'm not going anywhere. It's like Dorothy said!"

"Dorothy?"

"Dorothy, from the Wizard of Oz. Remember?" Gilligan smiled at his three dear friends. "There's no place like home."

_Only the epilogue left to go! Thanks for sticking around, folks!_


	14. Chapter 14

**Epilogue**

The half moon in the dark purple sky threw the island's mountains into shadow, softening their sharp silhouettes into the shape of sleeping giants. The thick jungle rustled and whistled in the darkness, where no light, not even of a firefly, disturbed its mystery.

In his own hut, in his own hammock, Gilligan lay listening. "Gee, Skipper," he said softly. "I'd almost forgotten."

"Forgotten what?"

"How beautiful the island is. Listen: I think she's singing to us!"

Below him, the Skipper snorted. "All I hear are crickets!"

"You have to listen real careful, Skipper." Gilligan turned to the window, where outside the tall palms leaned together like graceful sisters, whispering. "I think she's glad we're back!"

"Well, I sure am." Gilligan heard the Skipper cough once, then quickly carry on. "I mean, I sure am glad I don't have to pretend those three actors are the three of you anymore!"

"So those actors really did fool everybody, eh, Skipper? Boy, they must have been good."

"They were." Now a smug note of satisfaction crept in. "But they didn't fool me."

"Really? They didn't?"

"Not for a minute!"

"What tipped you off?"

"Oh, you know." Gilligan could almost picture the airy wave of the Skipper's hand below. "All kinds of things. That guy who played you, for instance. I mean, he sure looked like you and all, but there was no way he was going to take me in." There was a pause. "So…I guess when you were in Los Angeles, you must have met the guy who played me."

"Yeah, I did. Did some scenes with him, actually."

The Skipper's tone turned elaborately casual. "What did you think of him?"

"Alan? Oh, he was a nice enough kind of guy." Gilligan's tone became just as deliberately nonchalant. "So…what did you think of Bob?"

"Oh, he was a nice enough kind of guy." There was another pause. "We talked about you, a little."

"You did? What did you say?"

"Oh..." The Skipper's voice died away for a moment. Then he carried on in the same offhand tone. "Nothing much. Just told him about how you and I met, that kind of thing. He asked me to say hi to you, by the way."

"That was nice of him. Gee, I wish I could have met him." A thought suddenly struck the first mate. "Hey, where did he sleep while he was here?"

"In your hammock. Where do you think?"

Gilligan didn't know whether to be jealous or amused. "Bet you kept him awake all night with your snoring."

"What? Gilligan, I never snore."

"Sure you don't." Gilligan grinned and yawned. "So the headhunters are all gone, you said?"

"Are they ever. Heh, heh. Remind me to tell you about it some day. I wanna tell you, those actors were pretty amazing!"

"_They_ got rid of the headhunters?"

"Not exactly. I'll tell you about it some other time." The Skipper's voice quivered in eagerness. "Now come on, tell me about Los Angeles! What was it like, being back in civilization?"

Gilligan shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. Food was nice."

The Skipper's sigh nearly moved Gilligan's hammock. "I can imagine! T-bone steak, mushroom sauce, mashed potatoes…"

"Chocolate covered hamburger," said Gilligan.

"Oh…yeah." The Skipper didn't sound as hungry anymore. "How was it being on the set of our show? Was it fun?"

Gilligan remembered the fight at the lagoon and the mishap atop the stage. "Fun? No. Kinda dull, actually."

"What about the other actors? You met them all, didn't you?"

"All except for the girl who played Ginger. We never saw her."

"Oh really? How come?"

"Oh - they shoot scenes all over the place in the studio, you know, and we weren't really there for very long. Guess we just never managed to hook up with her."

"Oh." The Skipper chuckled. "Say – that was some greeting you gave our Ginger! You hugged her so hard you lifted her off her feet!"

Gilligan shifted slightly. "I was just so glad to see everybody safe, that's all. I hope she didn't mind."

"I don't think so. She was laughing. Come to think of it, the Professor and Mary Ann gave her big hugs too. What was that all about?"

"They just felt the same way I did, I guess. Mrs. Howell was kind of staring at us all through dinner, though. She kept whispering to Mr. Howell. 'Thurston, I'm so confused! It's getting so that you can't tell the players without a program!' What did she mean, Skipper?"

The Skipper laughed softly. "I don't know. That rich society lingo always goes right over my head. Just like when the Professor goes into one of his scientific lectures. Sometimes when he starts in I feel like my brain's going to explode!"

"Speaking of that –" A note of hesitation crept into Gilligan's voice. "Do you think the Professor's right, Skipper?"

"About what?"

"About not telling the Howells and Ginger what really happened? I feel kinda bad, keeping it a secret."

The Skipper sighed. "It's a tough call, little buddy. If the actors were still here, I'd say go ahead. But with no proof, and such a crazy story…I mean, I hardly believe it myself! We wouldn't want them thinking the four of us had gone crazy, would we?"

"I guess not. It's getting hard trying to remember what I'm allowed to say in front of people and what I'm not, though. I just got through pretending to be somebody else!"

"Well, maybe someday we can tell them about it, Gilligan. We'll see, okay?"

"Okay, Skipper."

There was a long silence. By now Gilligan had been with the Skipper so long he could tell what the big man's silences meant, even in the darkness. "Skipper?"

"Mmm? Yeah, little buddy?"

"Is something bothering you?"

"Um, no…erp…yes." The bamboo support poles creaked as the Skipper moved restlessly. "Well, the truth is, Gilligan, this whole thing got me taking a good, long, look at myself. And I didn't really like what I saw."

"You do kinda need a haircut," said Gilligan helpfully.

"No, no, I don't mean on the outside. I mean on the inside." The Skipper's voice suddenly grey very soft. "You know, for a while there, little buddy, I didn't know if I'd ever see you again."

Gilligan's voice was just as hushed. "Neither did I."

"And it made me realize a few things. I-I haven't always been as nice to you as I should be, little buddy."

"What? Sure you have, Skipper!"

"No I haven't, and you know it. I let you take the blame for things that aren't your fault. I don't stick up for you like I should. I blow up at you when you're only trying your best!"

"Skipper--"

"And there's a reason you've got the Navy Medal of Honour, and I don't," said the Skipper softly. "It's because you're the stronger and the braver of the two of us. You always have been, and you always will be. But I promise that from now on, I'll try to be a bit more of both, okay?" There was another pause. "Still shipmates?"

Gilligan leaned over the hammock to look down at the Skipper, and his eyes sparkled. "Sure, Skipper. You know why?"

"No, why?"

"'Cause I just can't wait to drop a coconut on your foot tomorrow!"

The Skipper burst into his rich laugh. "You what? Well, I just can't wait to sock you over the head with my cap!" His laughter slowly subsided into gentle chuckles. "Welcome home, little buddy."

"Thanks, Skipper. Good night."

Gilligan lay still as the island's thousand voices hummed about his ears, and heard at last the sweetest notes of all: the Skipper's snoring. Gilligan smiled into the darkness.

Yes. He had come home.


End file.
